


Mercenary

by belial



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Adorable, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, And Oswald Likes It, Boys Being Boys, Boys In Love, But Jim’s Gonna Fix ‘Em, But Oswald Shatters that Illusion, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Jim Tries to Hide a Big Soft Heart Under Gruffness, Jim is Nobody’s Hero (except Oswald’s), Jim is a BAMF!, Jim is an Assassin for Hire, Jim’s Got a Filthy Mouth Like Whoa, Jim’s Morals and Values are Skewed, Light Bondage, M/M, Obvious Virgin Oswald, Oswald has Body Issues, Oswald is Angry, Oswald is a Genius, Painter Oswald, Romance, Selina Kyle and Oswald are Bros, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-26 12:09:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3850456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belial/pseuds/belial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When his sister's car is driven off the road in an revenge hit, Gotham’s Mayor Carmine Falcone hires professional mercenary James Gordon to protect his nephew Oswald.  But he never could’ve predicted what would happen when he introduced a seemingly hardened contract killer to an angry, brilliant high school student.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Hire (Carmine Falcone)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the fandom, characters, etc. I make no profit from this. The Allendale Columbia School is a real place in New York; I am only borrowing it for this story, and have changed many facets of the campus to work in a fictional environment. No offense intended. http://allendalecolumbia.org/upper-school
> 
> Warnings: Underage (Jim is 27, Oswald is 16). This story could be considered power imbalance if you squint. Jim’s got all the control and he’s somewhat coercing Oswald with sexual activity. If that weirds you out, don’t read it. (I promise it gets consensual in a hurry.) Meanwhile, if you decide to take your chances and read anyway, don’t complain to me. You’ve been warned. 
> 
> Notes: Except for the Prologue, I change POV between Jim and Oswald. I do not remotely try to follow canon with this. I have changed everyone’s ages to fit in with the storyline.

As Mayor of Gotham City, Carmine Falcone’s met and described a variety of citizens: honest, angry, strong-hearted, innocent, apprehensive, and loyal. 

The man in front of him bears only one description: lethal.

Carmine pushes a folder across the desk of his study and watches the man pick it up; the movement is efficient, a flick of the wrist to turn the pages of the packet with no expended energy. “I’m not sure why I’m here, Mr. Falcone,” the man says. “People don’t normally hire me to keep someone alive.”

_They hire me to ensure people die_ goes left unsaid.

“Mr. Gordon,” Carmine says. “I admit my request to meet with you is… unorthodox, in your line of work. But frankly, our mutual acquaintance told me that you are the best in your field, and that you have a sense of honor when you accept work.”

Honor wasn’t quite the word to be used for an assassin, but if it was, then it would suit James William Gordon. Carmine’s friend at the C.I.A had assured him of Gordon’s reputation: Gordon only went after the scum of the earth, never targeted children, never targeted family, never left collateral damage. Carmine perseveres with, “I’m going to be very honest with you, Mr. Gordon.”

Gordon raises an eyebrow. 

“Yes, I’m aware, the words ‘honest’ and ‘politician’ never go together,” Carmine says, sighing. “If you’re going to ask me anything about being both the Mayor and the Head of the Falcone crime empire, then I will tell you yes, it’s probably all true.”

Gordon’s other eyebrow joins the first. “Most politicians aren’t so blunt, Mr. Falcone.”

“My family’s controlled the docks of Gotham for more than fifty years, Mr. Gordon,” Carmine says. “And I very easily could’ve been one of the thugs on the other side of the law. But let me tell you a story.”

“When I was seventeen, my parents gave me an accidental sibling – my baby sister, Gertrud. I hated her on sight; she did nothing but cry for days on end. In a moment of desperation, my mother put her in my arms, and she stared up at me in complete silence. From that day forward, when other brothers would’ve easily brushed her aside, Trudy was my baby. I adored her. When she got married, I begged my father to be able to walk her down the aisle because we were that close; she was every good part of me in a walking, talking person.”

“Sounds like you were lucky,” Gordon says. “But while the story’s nice, it still doesn’t explain why I’m here.”

“Eight months ago, my sister, her husband, and their son were driving back to Gotham from a family trip. Their SUV was run off the road and ended up in a gorge,” Carmine says. He balls his hands into fists. “The impact killed my sister and Henryk. My nephew Oswald was the only survivor. He spent six months in a hospital, clinging to life, learning how to walk and talk and eat again. The vehicle, when it landed, crushed most of the bones on his right side. Thanks to more than a dozen surgeries he’s regained the use of his right hand, but he walks with a discernable limp and cane. He’ll never drive or have the life a sixteen-year-old boy deserves, and _I own that_.”

Gordon watches Carmine’s face and Carmine doesn’t hold back. “My desire to make this city different – for better or worse – took my sister and destroyed my nephew, Mr. Gordon.”

“You want me to do what, then? Be his bodyguard?” Gordon asks. “Mr. Falcone, if we’re being honest, then I’ll admit I think our contact misled you. I’m not in the habit of preserving life. I’m in the business of taking it.”

“I’ll pay you fifty million dollars to ensure Oswald makes it safely to his twenty-first birthday,” Carmine says. “Mr. Gordon, you’ve no idea what Oswald is like. Before the accident, he was shy, awkward and brilliant. But he used to smile and laugh. Now he’s nothing but a ball of anger and he’s the prime target for anyone who’d want to kidnap him or kill him.”

“Fifty million dollars for five years work is a lot of money, Mr. Falcone,” Gordon says.

Carmine taps his fingers on the desk. It was the money that brought Gordon to his office, not any sense of moral responsibility towards Oswald. “Fifty million dollars, Mr. Gordon. If you take the assignment, I’ll give you a two-hundred and fifty thousand dollar signing bonus, with ten million to be paid into the account of your choice at the end of every year of your service.”

“Guilt’s expensive,” Gordon says. He stares at Carmine as though he can see through him. Hell, maybe he can. “If I were to say yes, I’d handle Oswald my own way. Ever job needs a different skill set to make it successful. I don’t want the rest of your staff interfering with my methods, even if they’re unusual.”

“Agreed, as long as you never harm Oswald, either physically or emotionally,” Carmine says. 

“Why did you only decide to hire him a bodyguard now?” Gordon asks, curiously, and Carmine can’t suppress his wince.

“He had bodyguards at the hospital, Mr. Gordon.”

“He was in a hospital six months out of eight. What about when Oswald was released?”

“Oswald’s a brilliant boy,” Carmine hedges. “We had hired him a guard previously, but Oswald… well. He rigged up a pulley system outside his bedroom window and made it to the boathouse before his previous guard realized what was going on. Average people can’t keep up with him.”

Gordon says, “So when you realized that a by-the-book flunkie wasn’t going to cut it, you decided to hire a hitman?”

“I’m a realist, Mr. Gordon. Oswald’s safety is my first priority and if I have to find creative methods to keep him safe and sound, I’ll utilize whatever resources necessary. That file you have is the basic outline of Oswald’s life, but if you accept this, I’ll give you one ten times its size. My nephew is a complex, complicated boy whom I love very, very deeply. So now that I’ve told you my story, I’d like to know whether or not you’d consider such a job.”

“Five years is a long time,” Gordon says, and Carmine’s heart sinks. But instead of an outright rejection, Gordon adds, “Give me the file on your nephew, and you’ll have my answer by Friday evening.”

Carmine stands. “Would meeting him help you make your decision?”

Gordon shakes his head no. “I’ve met a lot of people in my line of work, Mr. Falcone, and I tend to read people well. But I always take twenty-four hours to think on a job before I accept or reject it. It’s a personal standard.”

Carmine offers Gordon the file. “I understand. If there are any questions I can answer for you while you make your decision, my cell number’s listed on the contact sheet. Call me directly, at any hour.”

“I will.” 

Carmine picks up the phone and calls for his housekeeper. “Esther will show you out shortly.”

When Esther opens the door, Gordon stands, exits the room as silently as he entered it. Carmine’s left to be judged by the silence around him.

He wonders whether or not his mad idea will keep Oswald alive.


	2. One: Not a Typical Saturday (Oswald)

Waking is hell.

Oswald whimpers as he regains consciousness, all of the muscles of his right leg seizing at once. He cries out and digs his fingers into his thigh, massaging the offending limb until the spasms pass. When the pain subsides, he flops back on his bed and presses his fingertips into his eyes. “Another fucking day.”

He reaches for his bedside table, picks up his phone, and checks his texts, chuckling at the string of smiley faces from Kyle. He types: _Whr mtg 2nite?_

_Urs?_ comes Kyle’s reply.

_Yes but NO HORROR. xoxo_

_Loser. Fine, CU @8!_

Movie night. One of the few unchanging routines he’s had since childhood. Thank God for his best friend or he’d have swallowed his entire bottle of pain pills already.

He drags himself upright, reaches for his cane and pulls himself out of bed. His leg shudders beneath his weight and he waits; after a moment, the muscles coordinate and support him as he limps to the bathroom. He relieves himself, washes his face, and stares into the floor-to-ceiling mirror on the back of the bathroom door.

A goddamn monster stares back at him. Oh, sure, his face and neck were miraculously unharmed in the crash, but he has scars everywhere else on his right side. Whorls of damaged skin stretch across his shoulder, down his arm to his elbow, wrapped from collarbone to shoulder blade. His rib cage and hip don’t have any original skin on them; grafts weave him together like a massacred paper doll. And he’s glad he can’t see his leg under the light sleep pants he’s wearing, because the mottled skin over metal pins and plates is enough to turn his stomach. 

His hand trembles from where he’s gripping his cane too hard.

Oswald turns so he can’t see himself anymore, discards his sleep pants and steps into the in-suite shower. After moving into his uncle’s massive home, the blessing of having a bathroom next to his bedroom had become apparent in short order. Oswald stands under the hot spray, allowing the heat of the water to ease the ache in his limbs before he gets dressed to face the day.

“Another day of physical therapy, yay,” he mutters, as he slips into briefs and sweatpants and a tee and hoodie. “Can’t wait.”

He carefully walks down the hallway to the stairs and holds onto the handrail. He eases his way downstairs and, after making it to the bottom, grins at the staircase. “Beat you again,” he tells it. “Fucker.”

“Oswald?”

Oswald glances over his shoulder, notices his uncle standing near the living room. “Glad to see you up, Oswald. Would you mind joining me for a moment?”

Oswald limps into the living room and heads straight for his favorite chair, only to notice there’s a person in it. He stops and stares because:

A. Someone asshole’s sitting in his favorite chair, and   
B. The asshole who stole his favorite chair is _hot like burning_.

The guy is blonde and built and has blue, blue eyes that seem to strip Oswald from the top of his head to the bottom of his bare feet. “Uh,” Oswald says. As his brain reengages, he adds, “Who’re you?”

“Oswald, this is Jim Gordon. He’s been assigned to be your new bodyguard.”

“Bodyguard, personal assistant, whatever you need,” he-who-must-be-Jim replies. The blonde stands, towering over Oswald’s five foot three inch frame. “Hello, Oswald. It’s nice to meet you.”

Oswald doesn’t answer him. He instead rounds on his uncle, furious, saying, “Are you serious? Uncle Carmine, I thought we’d discussed this!” 

“This is not a topic open for discussion,” Carmine replies. “This…”

“This isn’t a dictatorship,” Oswald announces. “This is bullshit. Why do I need a lapdog when I never go anywhere but school and Kyle’s house? Isn’t this house secure enough?”

Oswald watches his uncle pinch the bridge of his nose. “The point is to keep you protected when you’re not here, whether you’re at school or at Kyle’s. Wouldn’t you feel better being able to go to more than those two places?”

“Why would I want to go anywhere else?” Oswald snarls. He’s frustrated and embarrassed that this… damn blond Adonis has been hired to babysit him. “Maybe I could go to a gym? No, that won’t work, my leg’s fucking useless. Maybe I could go walk one of the malls. Wait! Same problem! I can’t walk that fucking far. Oh, wait, I know, I could go clubbing. Dancing should be a real breeze.”

“Oswald…”

“Don’t be in my way,” he snaps at Jim, ignoring anything that his uncle could say further. Then, gathering himself with as much dignity as possible, he limps out of the room and heads towards the kitchen. When he arrives, he heads straight to the coffeepot and pours himself a cup.

“Make one for me, too.”

Oswald gasps, nearly loses his balance as he spins to see who’s behind him. But he doesn’t fall; before he can blink, Jim’s got his arms around Oswald’s back and waist, steadying him. “Sorry,” the blond says. “Thought you heard me walking behind you.”

Oswald’s in the arms of an incredibly handsome man, and the only reason for that is due to his leg’s inability to keep the rest of him upright. If it weren’t so sad, it would be funny. “Obviously I didn’t hear you,” he grumbles. “Let go of me.”

“You gonna keep your feet if I do?” Jim asks, arching an eyebrow. 

Oswald shoves at the man’s chest. “I said let go.”

Jim releases him and he digs his cane into the floor, pushing himself to a steady position. “I’m fine,” he says, though the throbbing in his hip tells him otherwise. “And I don’t need you to follow me around like a shadow.”

“Don’t get pissy with me, kid. I just wanted a cup of coffee,” Jim says. He moves around Oswald, plucks the cup off of the floor, and puts it in the sink. Then he pours a fresh cup from the counter for himself. He looks at the mess on the floor, looks at Oswald, and looks back at the mess. “You gonna clean that up?”

Oswald gapes. “You… it was your fault I dropped it! You clean it!”

“Not my fault you weren’t paying attention,” Jim replies, sipping from his cup. “And, as you said, I’m not your lapdog. Don’t look at me to clean up after you.”

Oswald’s mouth opens and closes but he can’t seem to form words. Oh God, it’s just his luck that the man’s an asshole. “Troglodyte!” he finally snarls. “You don’t give me orders. I certainly don’t answer to you.”

“No, but if you want to keep your uncle off your back, you will.” 

“How dare you!”

“Look, kid, cut the dramatics,” Jim says. Oswald notes the man hasn’t smiled once and still looks like he’d rather chew glass than speak. “You can call me a cave-dweller all you like, but the fact is you’re going to have a bodyguard whether you like it or not.”

“Not if I can help it,” Oswald growls, darkly. “We’ll see which one of us lasts around here and I assure you, it won’t be you. In fact, you should quit now and save yourself the aggravation.”

Jim looks at the spill on the floor again. “Something tells me I’m not going to be the one aggravated when Esther comes in and finds coffee on her nice, clean floor.”

With that, Jim turns and walks out of the room. Oswald’s left to stare at his retreating backside (which is just as amazing as the front side, goddamnit). Oswald realizes:

A. Jim is a rude motherfucking asshole;  
B. Jim-the-asshole got in the last word, which _never_ happens when people argue with Oswald;  
C. Jim-the-asshole knew what a troglodyte was without needing to consult dictionary.com, and,  
D. Esther was going to be back in the kitchen at any moment and make Oswald feel guilty for making a mess.

“Son of a bitch!”

Esther walks into the kitchen. “I wish you wouldn’t use that language, Ozzie,” she says. “You’re so much better than… why is there coffee on my floor?”

“I dropped a cup,” Oswald mutters, ears heating. “I’ll get some paper towels and clean it.”

Motherfucking asshole.

Oswald mops up the mess because he hates it when Esther treats him like the cripple he’s become. He does the best he can, knowing she’ll still wash the floor behind him and stumbles out of the kitchen. He’s hungry and still isn’t caffeinated, but he’ll be damned if he sits in there while Esther babies him. He hates being treated like a cripple. 

He hates Jim twice as much because Jim _hadn’t_ treated him like a cripple, and it frustrates him to no end.

Who the hell was Jim Gordon to realize how much Oswald wants to be treated like before?

Oswald heads away from the main rooms of the house to the back French doors. He goes outside and crosses the lawn to the little bungalow on the property. He fishes the key out of his hoodie pocket, opens the doors, and walks inside.

The bungalow’s a perfect escape; there’s a kitchen, living room, dining room and bedroom. Oswald occupies the main space and it’s a one-room disaster; stacks of paper and canvases sit on the floors, notes and color-swatches are stuck to the walls; shelves hold everything from brushes to chalk, feathers and books and a broken teapot. Two easels eat up the center of the room, and both hold a canvas. One’s blank. The other canvas is an unfinished oil of a woman’s face, half-hidden by a drop cloth over it. Oswald pulls the cloth aside and stares at his painting. Eventually he sits on a stool to get the weight off his broken limb. “Hi, Mom,” he says. “I really, really miss you. I think Uncle Carmine’s trying to drive me insane. He’s hired me another bodyguard, but this one has Charles Manson’s personality and looks like an Abercrombie model.”

The painting never answers when Oswald speaks, and only one of the two eyes is finished enough to look at him, but he doesn’t care; he’ll never touch it again because it’s perfect just as it is. It was the last thing he worked on before the accident and for Oswald, the shadow of his mother’s face is enough. “Kyle’s coming over tonight. I think she’s finally worked things out with Bruce and they’re dating. Yesterday at school she asked me whether or not we could move movie night to Sunday next week. It’s cool, though, because I like him, but what happens when she doesn’t want to spend time with me anymore and spends all her time with him? Is everyone going to leave me?”

Oswald’s eyes blur but he won’t cry. “Also, Uncle Carmine won’t let me test out of the rest of my sophomore year. He’s making me take it over because I missed so much of it! Mom, Kyle’s a junior now, even though I’m almost as old as she is. I should’ve been a junior, Mom, I don’t see why Uncle Carmine doesn’t realize I’m too smart to repeat grades!”

“And another thing,” Oswald continues. “When did art not become something worthwhile to study in college? He keeps leaving me these brochures for business schools, telling me with my GPA I could get into Harvard. Who the hell wants to go to Harvard? It’s full of rich assholes that don’t have any creativity!”

A throat clears behind him and Oswald glances over his shoulder. “Oh my God, how long have you been standing there?” he shouts, and literally wrings his hands. “Have you no compassion for my privacy?”

“I knocked,” Jim says, in lieu of an answer. The blond takes in the structure of the room and sits down in the one grimy recliner that Oswald scavenged from his parent’s home. “You didn’t answer, so I let myself in.”

“I had the door locked!”

Jim holds up… a paperclip? A metal sliver that used to be a paperclip? “Please tell me you didn’t MacGyver your way into the guest house,” Oswald groans.

“You’re definitely not old enough to remember that show.”

“Fuck you, we have a satellite dish.” Oswald grits his teeth. For whatever reason, Jim brings his mental capacity down to base expletives. “What do you want?”

“I’m getting paid to stick with you,” Jim says. He pulls a smartphone out of one of the thirty pockets of his cargo pants. “So do what you’re gonna do and I’ll be over here.”

“Do you play Angry Birds? Or is that too tough for you?” Oswald snipes.

“I’m fonder of first-person shooter games,” Jim says. He offers Oswald a slow, scorching smile that shows his teeth. “They’re more true-to-life for my tastes.”

Oswald swallows his tongue and mentally adjusts his lists:  
A. Jim is a rude motherfucking asshole;  
B. Jim-the-asshole thinks first-person shooter games are realistic, meaning he’s probably shot people before;  
C. Jim-the-asshole could melt Oswald’s panties when he smiles, and,  
D. Oswald is turned on and wearing sweats, which are two things that should NEVER, NEVER go together.

In his haste to handle item D, he stands up from the stool, forgetting to grab his cane, and pitches forward into the easel. The wooden beam, thankfully, catches his weight, and the worst thing that happens is that he knocks his canvas to the floor instead of putting an arm through it. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he growls, not looking at Jim. Astronauts in space could probably see him blush. “I did that on purpose.”

“Sure, kid. Whatever you say.”

“Stop calling me kid, asshole,” Oswald says, bending carefully and picking up both his cane and canvas. “I have a name, use it, if I have to tolerate you at all.”

“Sure, Oswald. Whatever you say.”

Dick.

Oswald pushes himself up, hobbles over to the bookshelf to retrieve his teapot. He sets it on one of the low tables in the room, flicks on a lamp to give it shadow and depth. He then moves over to a set of speakers. He plugs one of the two jacks into his smartphone and turns on his playlist.

Glenn Miller fills the air, stopping any attempts at conversation. It’s perfect, it’s heaven, and he closes his eyes to just breathe in the sound.

After a few cleansing breaths, he approaches the second easel and canvas. He’s prepared the canvas already, sizing the canvas to seal it and grounding the canvas with gesso to provide a uniform color, texture, and level of absorbency. He moves his stool to the appropriate distance from the easel and sits, staring between the teapot and the blank work in front of him.

Oswald picks up a thin pencil and sketches out the overall shape of the vessel, hinting at rounded corners and delicate curves, getting the feel of the object so he can paint. _It’s a good day_ , he thinks. He can do this. He spends more than two hours glancing between painting and pot, smoothing lines and edges, adding detail, getting lost in the pleasure of making art.

The work sails along until he touches his palette and brush. As soon as he holds the brush, his right hand starts trembling. “Come on,” he curses. “Come on, fucking please.”

The shrinks tell him the tremor isn’t a physical ailment; it’s caused by a fuck-up in Oswald’s brain. Painting is something he did with his mother; therefore his brain refuses to let his body do it without her. He grits his teeth and holds the brush more firmly. Oswald dips the brush into red paint, moves toward the canvas to start with one of the tiny roses along the teapot’s edge.

He drops the brush before he can even touch it to the frame. “Fuck!” he swears. “Fucking stupid, useless body!”

He picks up the sketch of the teapot and flings it at one of the walls, then throws the teapot itself. It shatters upon impact and Oswald laughs, picks up his cane and uses it like a baseball bat to hit the palette, the brushes, to send everything flying around his studio. He swings until his body collapses to the floor, where he wraps his arms around himself and screams at the ceiling instead.

“Hey, hey!” Two arms wrap around him and haul him to his feet. Oswald panics, lashes out at his attacker, and soon finds himself caught against a solid chest, his wrists pinned together in one large hand. “Oswald! Oswald, stop before you hurt yourself,” the voice growls.

Jim. Fucking hell, he’d completely forgotten about his silent shadow.


	3. Two: Picasso Meets His Match(Jim)

Jim’s cursing himself for ever taking the job. 

Oswald’s sobbing against his chest, panicked hitches of breath, his face buried in Jim’s neck. He doesn’t try to break away from the hold Jim’s got on his wrists; in fact, when Jim’s grip tightens, Oswald leans into it like it’s the only thing grounding him.

Jesus. 

“Oswald,” Jim tries again. “Pull yourself together, kid.”

The words are harsh to his own ears and he winces. It’s not like the kid can see his face, anyway. Fuck. Fucking Harvey, giving Carmine Falcone his name. Fucking Falcone, telling him Oswald’s story. _‘C’mon, Jim, you know you’re a soft touch for the weak and helpless ones,’_ , Harvey had teased, when he’d told the other man he was thinking about taking on Oswald. _‘But be careful tin man, don’t let the kid realize you’ve got a heart’_.

Jim had waived off the advice, but now… after seeing how beautiful and fragile and damaged Oswald is… 

Jim’s screwed. So, so screwed.

So he lets go of Oswald’s wrists, shoves the sobbing boy into the recliner and stalks outside, giving the sixteen-year-old a chance to pull himself together. Jim leaves the door open so he can hear the sobs taper off, wails turning to sniffles. Finally Oswald coughs and quiets.

Jim leans his forehead against the glass panes of the door and counts to ten. At ten, he walks back into the room and says, “Is there someone I should call to clean up in here?”

Oswald glares up at him through tear-stained eyes. “No. No one comes in here but me.”

Jim forces a shrug. “Then are you going to clean it, or do you want to go back to the main house?”

“Neither. I just… just go outside, or something. I want to sit here. Alone,” he stresses. 

Jim gives a curt nod and exits the cottage again, sits on the grass near the door. He gives the boy space as opposed to wrapping his arms around Oswald again. God, the kid felt good. Oswald was warm and squirming and tiny, rubbing his whole little body against Jim’s unconsciously… 

Jesus Christ, Jim needs to get laid. He tries to think about the last time he had relations with anyone other than his palm and comes up blank. There’s not been time lately, not with all the work coming his way, and he’s not getting any younger. He wants to get as many jobs completed as he can before he falls off the grid and retires.

That’s part of the reason he agreed to take on Oswald’s protection detail; five years would put him at thirty-two and by then, he’d be too old to be out in the field. And making fifty million to keep an eye on a kid? He would be living in a mansion in urban New York, how hard could that be? Especially when he compared Gotham to the shitholes of the world he saw while on other assignments. Paradise. And then he could retire, have plenty of money, and go drink on a beach somewhere. Done and done and done. Right?

He just never took into consideration that the kid he’d be watching looks like a wet dream, scars and limp or not. 

Jim doesn’t consider himself particularly moral. Ever since the Army, it’s kill or be killed. He counts Harvey Bullock as one of his only two friends on the planet; Harvey had been his C.I.A. contact on a job in Caracas when he’d been contracted by the U.S. government. The two men had hit it off while getting plastered in a third-world bar, spilling cervezas and blood between them. 

But even Harvey might frown at Jim fucking an underage brat.

Jim sighs. Falcone hadn’t been kidding when he told Jim about Oswald’s file. The Mayor had a wealth of information gathered about his nephew; the typical age/weight/race narrative mixed into a mini-biography. Jim knew everything from Oswald’s underwear size to his love of birds to the names of his two best friends, but none of the data on paper could’ve prepared him for the tortured, angry boy inside the guest house. Jim had taken one look at the wide green eyes, softly-spiked black hair, and tiny hips and just _wanted_.

“Jim?”

Jim doesn’t startle thanks to years of practice. “What’s up, kid?” he asks, gruffly.

“I… I want to go to my room,” Oswald replies. He shrinks back into himself when Jim rises. “I thought I’d tell you so you don’t scare me to death by showing up hanging from my ceiling later.”

Smart-mouthed brat. Jim keeps his face impassive but on the inside he’s grinning. He nods, gestures to the main house. “After you.”

Oswald studies him, green/blue eyes concentrating on Jim’s mouth and nose. Jim realizes that he’s not only being checked out, but that he’s being studied by an artist. He’d seen the paintings; Oswald has a natural talent. So he arches an eyebrow, tilts his head, and licks his lips, making the boy gasp and flush. “You gonna get moving any time today?” he asks. “Or are you just gonna stare some more?”

“Asshole,” the teenager mutters and limps towards the main house. Jim watches Oswald move, wonders what kind of damage the boy could do if he wasn’t one of the walking wounded. The kid had a damn strong swing with that cane. Jim follows behind him so he can enjoy the bright red blush on the back of Oswald’s neck.

Yeah, he definitely likes this job so far.

When they get inside, Oswald slowly makes his way up the stairs. He turns to Jim and says, “Did Uncle Carmine give you a room in the house?”

Jim nods. “Good,” the boy continues. “Go there. I’ll be in my room and you don’t need to watch me there.”

“So you can build another pulley and ditch out the window? Nice try.”

Oswald’s mouth drops open. “I’m not… that isn’t… he told you that?”

“Your uncle was considerate enough to tell me that, yes.”

“I’m not building another escape route!”

“Then you shouldn’t have a problem letting me in.”

Oswald swears, throws his hands up. “Do whatever you want. It’s not like I could physically stop you.”

“You could try.”

Any redder, and the kid’s neck would catch fire. Jim smothers a grin again, adds, “If you think you could take me.”

“Oh my God! I have physical therapy at four. I’m going to take a nap until then. Just be quiet if you intend to stay, there’s a chair you can sit in if you really feel the need to watch me sleep like a damn Twilight vampire.”

“I don’t sparkle,” Jim says. Shit. He hadn’t meant to say that, and Oswald’s too bright to let it go.

Jim’s proven right when the boy freezes, turns around and gapes at Jim. “Did you just make a joke?” he says, shock and awe on his face. “You. Made a joke. You who have the mannerisms of an axe murderer just made a pop culture joke, oh my God, the world is ending.”

Jim shakes his head. “Dramatics,” he says. “Go take your nap, kid, you must’ve been hearing things.”

Oswald’s mouth works without sound and Jim winks at him. “Oh my God, you’re an asshole and you’ve been stonewalling me all afternoon!” Oswald announces. “You’re a sarcastic, gorgeous asshole, how are you even real?”

And then, as if realizing what he just said, Oswald’s eyes go round as dinner plates. He slaps one hand over his mouth and stares up at Jim. Before Jim can reply, Oswald lets out a shrill noise and scurries into his room, slamming the door in Jim’s face.

Jim sits outside Oswald’s door and leans his back against it, listening to the teenager hyperventilate on the other side of it. Finally he gives in and knocks.

“I’m not here!” the boy shouts.

“Oswald,” Jim says, attempting to be reasonable. “It’s fine, kid. I’ve been hired to protect you, remember? I don’t get paid if I beat you to death for not having a filter between your brain and your mouth.”

“That’s what they all say!” Oswald replies. “If I open this door, you’ll choke me with my own tongue! I’ve seen the Godfather! I know what they call an Italian necktie!”

Jim bursts out laughing. It’s taken the kid less than a day to hit all of Jim’s buttons: bright, talented, bitter, angry, broken, gorgeous, and snide. He’s laughing so hard that when Oswald finally opens the door, he falls back through it and sprawls on the floor. “Oh my God, you know how to laugh,” Oswald says, amazed.

“Kid, you’re ridiculous,” Jim snorts. He stares up at Oswald. “For your information, Italian neckties are given only to snitches that spill secrets. If you ever read the Godfather, you’d know that. The movie never explains the rituals and traditions clearly.”

Jim hopes Carmine Falcone never brings Oswald into his other business dealings. The kid’s way too fucking innocent for such things. “Thank you for the mini-education on mob executions,” Oswald says. “I feel so much safer with you now, really.”

Jim rolls to his feet and shoos Oswald into his room. While the boy sits on his messy bed, Jim takes the desk chair. “Look,” he says. “I told your uncle the only way I’d take this job is if he let me run it my way. That means it’s the two of us versus everyone else, if you’ll agree to working with me instead of against me.”

“I just met you! Why the hell should I work with you?”

“Lots of reasons,” Jim says. “First of all, I’m not actually an asshole. Which most people don’t get the opportunity to see. Especially people who are too stupid to pick up on my deeply sarcastic and morbid sense of humor.”

Jim watches Oswald blush. “Yeah, I get it, you’re built the same way. Defense through rhetoric. Don’t pull the bullshit with me, Oz, it won’t work out well when I see through it. I’ve had a lot longer to perfect my poker face.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Oswald says, waving a hand at Jim. “Just because you’re not an asshole doesn’t mean I should trust you.”

“Also you should know that your uncle hired me because I’ve got experience killing people.”

Oswald chokes on his own spit. Jim grins. “I thought that one might get your attention. I’m uniquely qualified to keep you alive because I’m normally the one on the other end of the gun. So you’ve got much better chances of surviving with me if someone really is out to kill you.”

Jim doesn’t get a smart comeback to that, so he goes in for the kill. “You want to know the best reason you should trust me?”

Oswald nods, wide-eyed again. God, he’s adorable. Jim stands up and unzips his fly, ignoring Oswald’s inhalation. He unbuckles his belt and pushes his pants and briefs over his hips to expose his lower back, then tugs his tee-shirt over his head. He turns to give Oswald the full view of his back so the boy can see his own scars and wounds. “You see the four circles at the base of my spine?”

“Yes!” Oswald whimpers. 

Jim knows what he looks like naked. He’s shamelessly using his body to his advantage. “I was overseas on a job and a competitor of mine decided to shove a cattle prod repeatedly into my back,” he says. “I couldn’t stand properly for weeks and it took a hospital stay for me to walk again.”

He glances over his shoulder. “Life’s a fucking joke sometimes, Oz,” he says, the pet name easily falling from his mouth. “It shits on you when you least expect it, keeps shitting on you until you’re buried in it. You can either accept it or start digging your way out of it.”

“You think it’s that easy?”

“I think it’s that easy. Hell, kid. I’ve seen your file; I’ve seen your grades and your art. You know what I see? I see someone who should be getting even, not giving up. And don’t tell me it’s hard. That’s bullshit. Everything in life’s hard.”

“But…”

“Do you think your mother would want you to be a fucking pussy about it?” Jim asks, turning to face Oswald again. He doesn’t zip up his pants, lets the boy take his fill if he wants to. “Or do you think she’d slap you, tell you to sac up, and shove you back into the driver’s seat of your own life?”

“Ten cent psychiatry isn’t what you’re being paid for,” Oswald says, but he ogles Jim breathlessly. “My mother wouldn’t use the expression sac up, but she might push me… But you’ve known me less than a day and you think you’ve got any right to say that?”

“I’m the only one who can be this honest with you, kid. You don’t seem to listen to anyone else. And besides,” Jim adds, playfully lowering his zipper, “I’ll fucking cheat to win if I have to.”

Oswald blinks, drags his eyes back to Jim’s face. “You… you! That’s a terrible, horrible trick, I can’t believe… oh my God, I was staring at you and you let me, you tricked me into saying things I wouldn’t have… you!”

“Here’s the best part, kid, are you listening?” Jim makes sure he has Oswald’s full attention. “You tell your uncle or anyone what transpired here today, and they’re not going to believe a word that you say. So think about what I told you, and decide whether or not you want me to stay or go. I’ll make you a deal. You look in the mirror and be honest with yourself, stop letting your mourning get the better of you. If you think you can face the world on your own and come out better for it, I’ll leave; no questions, no arguments. But if you think I might have something to teach you, then you tell me you want me to stay. Do you understand me?”

Oswald nods. Jim commands, “Tell me. Out loud.”

“I understand.”

Jim grins and gestures towards Oswald’s lap. “Good boy. Now, you’ve got about fifteen minutes to take care of that wood before your physical therapist gets here. I’ll wait outside. You think about what I said.”

With that, Jim pulls his shirt back on, tucks it in, and zips his pants. He palms his own bulge, not taking his eyes off of Oswald’s, and then steps out of the room, closing the door behind him.

He hears a muffled groan from inside the room and smiles.


	4. Three: Running with the Devil (Oswald)

“My new bodyguard is Satan,” Oswald announces the minute Selina Kyle climbs through his window. “Also, you’re allowed to use the doors, you know.”

“How am I going to be the perfect cat burglar if I don’t practice?” she teases, and kisses him on the cheek. “Hey there, my precious Penguin.”

“Hello, Catwoman,” he teases back. They’d picked their supervillain nicknames when they were four and five, respectively, and hadn’t looked back since. (Oswald will deny having a stuffed penguin in his closet until death.) “I’m really glad you’re here.”

“So I can tell,” Kyle says. “What’s going on with you? Why is your new bodyguard the devil, exactly?”

“He’s gorgeous,” Oswald moans. “And he’s really sarcastic, and he told me to get over my shit and get better. I hate him.”

“Oh yeah, he sounds awful,” she teases. She sits next to him on the bed and kicks off her shoes. “When did you meet him?”

“This morning,” Oswald says. He rolls onto his stomach and buries his face in the pillows. “He’s evil.”

At that moment, the embodiment of Evil knocks on his bedroom door and pushes it open. Jim’s stone-faced again, pretending to be a robot or a zombie (or an assassin, Oswald’s brain helpfully points out). “Good evening, Miss Kyle,” he says, nodding at her. “I’m Jim Gordon, Oswald’s personal guard.”

Selina, the dirty traitor, gives Jim an all-encompassing look. “Yes you are,” she murmurs, only loud enough for Oswald to hear. “It’s nice to meet you!” she says more loudly. “I’m here for movie night.”

“I know. Mr. Falcone told me to expect your arrival. Are you two comfortable? Do you need anything?”

“We might make popcorn later, but I promise I’ll drag Ozzie down the stairs instead of out the window,” she says, and ignores the noise of protest Oswald lets out. He ends up giving his dirty look to the back of her head. “Thanks though.”

“Enjoy yourselves, then,” Jim says, giving another all-too-polite nod. “I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”

Then he closes the door and is gone. Kyle gives Oswald a look. “I totally see what you mean. What a bastard, making sure we’re comfortable.”

“It’s an act!” Oswald cries, but it’s no use: Jim’s right. Jim will slip beneath everyone’s radar and no one will suspect him of anything sinister. “He’s an assassin in sheep’s clothing!”

“I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean,” his best friend says, elbowing him in his ribs gently. “Now stop being a weirdo and pick out something for us to watch, or I’m putting on _Hostel_.”

“I hate that movie,” Oswald says. “It scares the shit out of me, you know that!”

“Then pick something else and stop telling me your uber-hot bodyguard is an alien or something. Also, put on something we’ve seen, I want to give you the 4-1-1 on me and Bruce.” 

“I knew you two were dating,” Oswald says, shaking his head. He grabs the remote off his nightstand and pulls up the Netflix menu, deciding to put on _The Notebook_. “It’s about time you two got your shit together.”

She blows him a raspberry and snuggles into his side. Quietly, she says, “Are you sure you’re okay with it, Penguin?”

“Come on,” Oswald replies, giving her a smile. “It’s not like I’m going to be able to date you and give you curly-haired, freckly babies.”

“Eww! I want to date him, not have his babies!” she says, giggling. “We’re not even at the kissing stage yet.”

“Good? I guess?”

“What about you and his hotness in the hallway? You gonna bone him? Or ask him to bone you?”

Oswald’s face explodes into color and Selina almost falls off the bed laughing. When she can control herself, they end up watching the movie, and then they watch _Once_. When it’s almost midnight, she says, “Mmm. I better go home or I’m going to fall asleep here.”

“You can stay if you want, I don’t mind.”

“No, I can’t,” she says. She leans over and presses her lips to his forehead. “Mom’s going to kill me if I miss mass with Nanna again. Can I raincheck? Maybe next week?”

“Yeah. If you bring your uniform, you and I can ride to school together.”

“Oh, right. You’re sure it’s okay if we move movie night to Sunday?”

Oswald bites his bottom lip. “You know… you know you can bring him with you, right? I like Bruce, we’re friends.”

“Penguin,” she says, shaking her head. “No way! No hoes allowed during bro-time. This is ours! We can hang out with Bruce in a different venue. I don’t want to lose us just because there’s a boy in my life, okay? And you’re not allowed to fall for some boy and forget about me either. Deal?”

This is why he loves Kyle. She gets him. “Deal,” he replies.

“Okay, then. I’ll see you Monday in class.”

He nods and she slips out the window again. Ten minutes later, a knock sounds on his door. “Come in,” he says.

Jim walks into the room, notes Kyle’s absence, and goes to lock the window. “Good night, Oz,” he says. “I’m across the hall from you if you need anything.”

Oswald bites his lip and nods. “Good night, Jim,” he finally manages, as Jim’s almost out the door.

The hall light goes off; Oswald stares at the ceiling for a long, long time.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but bright sunlight wakes him Sunday morning. Jim may have locked the window, but he never pulled the shade, and Oswald groans at the light. He glances at his phone and groans again. “It’s only nine thirty?”

He also groans because he fell asleep in his sweatpants and now he’s hotter than fuck, along with being achy. “Shit,” he says, rubbing his thigh so the throbbing pain diminishes. “Fucking ridiculous.”

He grabs for his cane and realizes it’s nowhere to be seen. “What the hell?”

Then he spots it on the floor a few feet from the bed. He must’ve rolled over and knocked it from the nightstand. “Great.”

Oswald’s learned all the tricks for picking up his fallen walking aide, but the easiest way to get the damn cane is for him to crawl to it. He slides out of the bed onto the floor carefully, uses his arms to pull his lower half across the floor.

This is, of course, when a knock sounds on his door. “In a minute!” he shouts.

“Oswald?”

Uncle Carmine. Shit. “I’ll be right there! Just… give me a minute, please?”

Carmine has no such compulsions to give Oswald any privacy. The door swings open and his uncle walks in. He stops and they stare at each other. “What’re you doing on the floor?” Carmine asks.

“I dropped my cane,” Oswald mumbles, gesturing to it. “Since my leg hasn’t been exercised today, it hurts too much to walk on so I can’t get it unless I scoot across the carpet.”

“Oswald!” Carmine scolds. The older man picks up the cane and pulls Oswald to his feet. “Why didn’t you call for help?”

“Because I’d like to be able to do things for myself,” Oswald replies. He shuts his eyes and rubs his face, grumbling, “So people don’t remember I’m pathetic.”

“That’s not remotely funny, young man,” Carmine replies. He sits down. “Jim came to see me this morning.”

“When? At dawn?”

Carmine doesn’t crack a smile at this. “Not everyone sleeps until noon on Sundays.”

“No, of course not, I didn’t think the undead slept at all,” Oswald says, darkly, picturing the handsome-yet-annoying blond man’s face. Oh God, of course Jim would have to be a morning person. Asshole. “Where’s my new best friend, anyway?”

“Your new best friend?” Carmine blinks. “You mean… you like him?”

Oswald pauses, considers his uncle’s words. “I… I guess so? I mean, I met the man yesterday. But…” and here he hesitates. How much should he tell his uncle? 

He decides to go with a blend of honesty and sarcasm, since his uncle would expect him to be spiteful at having yet one more bodyguard. “He said he’s gonna teach me some tricks I may not know yet, since I think I know everything. He may have a point.”

Carmine breaks into a wide smile. “That’s wonderful news!” he exclaims. “I’m very proud of you, Oswald, for giving Jim a chance.” Then he lowers his voice. “I know he’s not a very friendly person, but I found him to be very competent when I hired him.”

“That’s one word for him,” Oswald says, and forces a smile. “So, um. He came to see you?”

“Yes,” Carmine replies. “He had some suggestions that I’m inclined to let him run with, and I know he’ll talk to you about them later. But after our conversation yesterday, I wanted to make sure… Well. I’m glad you’ve decided to give him an opportunity to work here.”

“You’re just glad I’m going to tolerate a babysitter,” Oswald complains.

“That too. May I asked what made you change your mind?”

Oswald sits on his bed and glares at the carpeting. Unthinkingly, he says, “He talks to me like Mom did. No bullshit, no pampering.”

They both freeze. Carmine’s face twists into something painful, and Oswald is reminded that he not only lost his mother and best friend, but that his uncle lost a baby sister. It takes a moment of silence before Carmine lays a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. The older man clears his throat and says, “I’m glad, Oswald. After you shower, would come down and have Sunday brunch with me? We haven’t eaten together in a few days.”

“I thought you would’ve eaten earlier?”

“Esther made homemade cinnamon rolls,” Carmine says. “And if you don’t tell on me, I might eat a second one. Deal?”

No matter how much Oswald wanted to hate his uncle, the man still tries to put things right, and Oswald sighs. “Deal.”

“Good. Then I’ll see you soon.”

Carmine leaves and Oswald pulls himself upright. “Shower,” he says, and limps into the bathroom. The hot water does its usual job of loosening up the tight muscles and by the time he gets out, he feels almost human again.

Oswald looks at the mirror on the back of the door. His skin’s lobster-red from the hot water, and he shifts so he can better see the scar tissue on his leg. He’s knee creaks when he twists it, the metal screws pressing out into the flesh there, making the joint bulge unnaturally. Oswald cringes back from his reflection and averts his gaze. 

_Freak. Unnatural. Skinny. Twisted. Ugly. Terrifying._

The words run through his mind and he bites his lip as tears run down his face. He was never going to be a beauty, but why did he have to end up a beast?

A knock on the bathroom door. “What?” he chokes.

“Hey, kid,” Jim’s voice calls. “You’ve been up here half an hour. You’re not going to have any cinnamon rolls because I’m going to eat them all if you don’t shake a leg.”

Oswald frowns at the door and wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Shake a leg? Really? You think that’s funny?”

The door pushes open and Oswald lets out an “eep!” of embarrassment. Jim’s head pops through the space and the blond grins at him as he scrambles to wrap a towel around his waist. 

“It’s not supposed to be funny, Oz. It’s what you need to do if you’re going to get fed. Shake a leg. Shake ‘em both. What, you don’t think you can? I had more faith in you than that.”

Oswald holds the towel in front of his groin like a shield. “Seriously, get out! Oh my God, a little privacy?”

Jim, being Jim, ignores him. He pushes the door open and walks in, backing Oswald against the sink counter. “You’ve never been in a locker room before? We’ve all got cocks, kid. You can’t be shy about yours.”

“I’m not… there’s not…” Oswald can’t stop sputtering long enough to get a sentence out. “Get out!” 

“Shh, kid,” Jim says. He grins at Oswald, adds, “You already told Carmine I’m your new best friend. Why do you want to crush my delicate feelings by pushing me away now?”

“I hate you,” Oswald says with feeling. 

“No, you don’t,” Jim replies. The man’s huge hands come up and tug at the towel, trying to get Oswald to relinquish his death grip on the cloth. “C’mon. Show me.”

Oswald’s not sure if he’s supposed to be terrified or aroused. Jim easily brings out both emotions, and he squeaks, “What?”

“Let me see the scar tissue, so I know what we’re dealing with,” Jim says. “I told Carmine I was gonna teach you how to swim, told him it would help with your leg. Lemme see your leg.”

Oswald giggles in hysterical relief. “You want to see my leg?”

“Well yeah,” Jim says. As soon as Oswald lets go of the towel, Jim pulls it away and whispers, “And if I get to see that sweet untouched cock of yours, it’s just a bonus, isn’t it?”

Oswald dies right there in the bathroom. All of the blood rushes from his face to his dick and he hardens while Jim watches. “That’s good, Oz. An erection means you can get the blood flowing to your lower extremities.”

“You’re the Prince of Darkness,” Oswald says, before he can engage the privacy filter on his mouth. He tries to cover his groin but Jim bats his hands out of the way. “Please, don’t…”

“Don’t what?”

Oswald closes his eyes and wants to cry again. “Please don’t play with me like this!” he cries out. His erection wilts with the confession. “I know I’m a monster, but you don’t have to tease me!”

“Oz,” Jim says, and tips Oswald’s face up. “I’m not teasing you and you’re not a fucking monster. You’re gorgeous. You don’t think so?” 

“Look at me!” Oswald snaps. “I’m nothing but skin grafts and bone! Who the hell could find a creature like me attractive?”

“I could,” Jim says, like it’s that easy. The man reaches out and touches Oswald’s malformed hip. “You know what this is? It’s a fucking badge of pride.”

“Says who?”

“Anyone in my profession,” Jim states. “Scars are sexy, and they’re also a giant ‘fuck you’ to the rest of the world. They mean you didn’t die when you were supposed to. You think about that sometime, okay?”

Oswald leans into the touch and Jim gives his hip a firm but painless squeeze. “And while you’re wrapping your head around that, put on your fucking clothes and come downstairs, or I’m eating all of those cinnamon rolls without you. Esther’s a damn fine cook.”

“Jim,” Oswald pleads, but he has no idea what to say after that.

The hitman gives him a crooked smile. “You made the right decision when you chose for me to stay,” he says, and he cups Oswald’s face in his hands when he speaks. “And I gave you a promise that I had something to teach you. I wasn’t talking only about teaching you to survive, Oz. I’ll teach you anything you want. All you have to do is ask me for it.”

Oswald’s eyes go round. “You… you… you really?”

Jim leans forward, drawing their mouths together, and Oswald’s brain starts screaming at him like a banshee. _He’s going to kiss us oh my God make a note of this will he use tongue holy crap this has never happened before wonder what he tastes like and…_

The kiss, when it happens, is a gentle, closed-mouth brush of lips that sends electricity to Oswald’s legs and turns them to jelly. Jim catches him before he can swoon, gives him another soft kiss for the trouble. “You gonna be okay?”

“Bwuh.”

The blond smiles, leans in, and bites at Oswald’s lower lip. “Good boy,” he murmurs, nibbling. “Such a good, good boy. I’ll see you downstairs.”

With that, the man turns and leaves the bathroom like he’d never been there.

Oswald stares for a moment, wonders if he’s hallucinated the entire event before he licks his lips and tastes cinnamon.

He’s suddenly ravenous.


	5. Four: Day Twenty-Five(Jim)

Jim spends twenty-four days masturbating like a fourteen-year-old boy. He’s pretty sure if he didn’t have to keep an eye on Oswald at some point, he’d give up on the idea of working altogether. 

He is, of course, the consummate professional around others. Whether he be walking Oswald to classes at the Allendale Columbia School, layered in Kevlar and a three-piece suit, or sitting with Oswald at Kyle’s house, listening to the two of them play trivia games or watch movies, Jim is alert and aware and armed to the goddamn teeth.

When it’s just him and Oz, though… it’s all he can do to keep himself from pulling the boy onto his dick by force. 

_”All you have to do is ask me for it,”_ he’d said. He’d given all of the power to Oswald and, by God, he’s going to keep his hands and his mouth and his cock to himself until Oswald decides whether or not he wants to take Jim up on everything Jim’s offering.

Jim doesn’t, however, let Oswald make decisions on anything else.

“Whathefuck,” the sleepy voice mumbles, as Jim shakes him awake on day twenty-five. Oswald squints at him. “Ji’?”

“Time to rise and shine,” Jim says. If he has to be sexually frustrated, then Oswald can get up at, “It’s four a.m. and we have a date with the pool.”

“Yurcrzy,” comes the muffled reply, as Oswald pulls a pillow over his face. “Geh lost.” 

“Nope, get up,” Jim says. He gives Oswald a poke in the nose. “I’ll be happy to pick you up, carry you to the pool, and toss you in, kid,” he says.

“Satan.”

Jim adores the rude, impulsive things that fall out of Oswald’s mouth. Not only does the sixteen-year-old not have a filter, but he’s quick and quirky and has somehow decided that Jim should be referred to by demonic address only. “That’s me,” Jim agrees. “Your friendly neighborhood Master of Infernal Domains. Get up, Oz.”

“Ooo, Master of Infernal Domains,” Oswald yawns. “At’s a good one. Gonna remember that.”

But without further prodding, Oswald sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. He rubs at his right leg with both hands and Jim helps, kneeling on the floor to rub the kid’s foot and calf muscle. The sweet, adorable smile on Oswald’s face is thanks enough. “How do you kill people when you’re such a softie?” the boy asks, still half-asleep. Jim finds he learns the most about Oswald in this mostly-not-awake time. “Knight in shining armor…”

Jim chuckles, helps Oswald stand. “It’s my secret identity,” he says. “Grab your cane and let’s go to the pool.”

Jim had started their pool lessons on Thursday after Oswald got out of class. Getting the boy to put on a swimsuit had been a fight until Jim stripped down to navy boxer-briefs. “Coming?” he’d challenged, and thrown himself in.

Now, Oswald pulls on a bathrobe over his swim trunks and follows him to the pool without complaint. “Why’re we doing this so early?” he asks as he reaches for Jim’s hand. “Can’t we do this after school instead?”

Jim brings their fingers together and allows Oswald the comfort of touch. “We don’t want to set up a routine. You’ve got too many routines as it is. This way, if someone’s trying to get their hands on you, they don’t know when you’ll be swimming.” They have this same conversation every morning because Oswald isn’t awake enough to remember having it before. 

Jim actually mouths along as Oswald replies: “But I’ve got you to protect me.”

“Kiddo,” Jim says, biting back a grin. “Where exactly do you think my gun is when I’m in the pool?”

“Oh,” Oswald says, mostly-closed eyes going wide. “I didn’t think of that.”

“Exactly.” 

Jim will never tell Oswald that his uncle has enough guards posted around the property to make it mostly secure, because he never wants Oswald to get lax in his habits. “So we’re going to do an early morning session today, before you get your shower or go to school.”

“Okay,” Oswald replies, and goes back to almost-sleepwalking. 

But as soon as Oswald’s footsteps falter, Jim’s ready for it. He simply picks the boy up in his arms and carries him the rest of the way to the pool house. Jim holds Oswald close and leaves the cane propped against the interior pool house wall. “Sorry,” Oswald says. “S’far to walk so early.”

“I know kiddo. I wasn’t sure you were gonna make it all the way out here on your own, so I was ready for it.”

Oswald’s leg had been hurting him more and more the longer they stay in the pool; but on the flip side, the boy had hobbled from the kitchen counter to the fridge and back without his cane the day before.

Esther had cried; Jim had almost joined her.

“We there yet?”

Jim laughs. “Yes, Oz. We’re here.”

“Good horsey,” Oswald replies, patting Jim’s chest. He drops his head onto Jim’s shoulder. “Wish I could ride you for real.”

Jim stumbles and almost sends both of them to the ground. Only years of honed reflexes keep them upright. He carefully sets Oswald to his feet, cups the boy’s face in his hands, and says, “You can if you want to. All you have to do is ask me.”

“Okay,” Oswald yawns. “I will.”

It’s all Jim can do not to groan in frustration. He slams his eyes shut and counts to twenty; he’s being good, he’s being so, so good not to molest the boy in front of him until Oswald asks, “Is now a good time?”

Jim’s eyes snap open. Gone is the expression of sleepy confusion. In its place is an expression of gleeful, willful mischief. 

“You little faker,” Jim marvels, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Did you even get too tired to walk on the way out here, or did you fake that, too?”

“I’ll never tell,” Oswald replies, cheekily. Then, with less confidence, he asks, “Was that not okay?”

Jim lets go of the groan that’s been building in his chest. He swoops in and cover’s Oswald’s mouth with his own, licking straight into the boy’s mouth to chase his sweet wet tongue. Oswald gasps and Jim swallows the sound, pulling Oswald flush against him to bring his cock into contact with Oswald’s belly. “Does that feel not okay to you?”

Oswald peeps like a baby chick and Jim grins, presses a slower, gentler kiss to the boy’s mouth. “God, Oz, I didn’t think you were ever going to say anything.”

“I was nervous,” Oswald confesses. “This is… I’m almost seventeen. People didn’t want me before, and to think someone like you would be interested, it didn’t compute.”

“Kids your own age are blind,” Jim growls. “Goddamn.”

“So… can we fool around now?”

Jim wants to. Jim so desperately wants to. “No,” he says. Before Oswald can protest or feel rejected or worry, he says, “God, how I want to. But this building has too many windows, kiddo. I don’t know if any of your uncle’s guards would be walking by at the wrong time and see us.”

Oswald ducks his head, closes his eyes. “Right,” he says. 

“But once we get done with the swim lesson, there’s a shower room right around the corner…”

Oswald’s face lights up and he giggles. “Oh. Oh! Okay, yes, that, please.”

“Good,” Jim says, and swats the boy gently on the butt with his hand. “Now get out of that robe and into the pool with you.”

Oswald grins, shrugs out of the bathrobe and reaches for the railing that leads into the shallow end. “Slowly,” Jim advises. He hops into the pool so that if Oswald slips, Jim will catch him. “One step at a time.”

Oswald carefully gets waist-deep in the heated pool, then sinks up to his neck by bending his knees. “Mmm. Warm.”

Jim’s grateful for all of Carmine Falcone’s money, if only so Oswald gets a little bit of spoiling. He tries not to think how over his head he is with the boy in front of him. “Warm indeed. You know the drill: hold onto the wall, pick up your feet and kick so you stay afloat.”

“What if I’m too sleepy to practice this morning?”

“Then I guess I’m showering alone…”

Oswald starts without another word and Jim counts it as a silent victory. While the boy lifts one leg at a time through the water, Jim says, “I still can’t believe your physical therapists never discussed water therapy.”

Oswald doesn’t answer; his face is red from the exercise. “Don’t overdo it,” Jim warns, though the boy just shakes his head. “Oz.”

“Not. Overdoing. It.” Oswald says stubbornly. “Just. S’hard!”

Jim catches Oswald’s leg on the next kick, holds the boy still. Oswald pants. “The point isn’t to kick until you keel over.”

“I know,” Oswald says. “But this feels better than my other therapist’s exercises! I’d rather push here where it doesn’t hurt so much then push through excruciating leg curls on a Nautilus machine.”

Jim can’t blame him. He remembers his own short time getting his legs rehabilitated. Fortunately he only had a bit of nerve damage. “Neither should be excruciating.”

“Tell that to my drill sergeants. They’re worse than the fucking shrinks.”

“Nothing’s worse than shrinks,” Jim empathizes. “I’d rather shoot myself.”

“Yeah, well, for the first month I was in the hospital, no one seemed to want to leave me alone without there being ‘someone to talk to’ on hand.”

It’s a first Jim isn’t expecting. Oswald doesn’t talk about his time in the hospital. He hardly mentions his parents at all. Jim isn’t sure he’s qualified to offer judgement on anything Oswald might say, but he forces his body to stay still and relaxed. “I was in the Army before I went independent,” he offers. “They love to shrink your head there, too.”

The comment seems to blow open all of Oswald’s doors at once. “They have no right to pry!” he snaps. He makes a fist and punches the water. “They have no idea what it’s like in my head, they’re all so fucking sympathetic but they have no idea! Because you don’t want people’s pity when you wake up and your arms and legs don’t work. You don’t want to look like Frankenstein’s experiments; you just want your mom and dad and then they tell you no one’s coming back for you!”

Oswald’s crying by the time he finishes the sentence and Jim opens his arms. In moments, they’re full of Oswald. “Fuck. Stupid shit makes me think about them all the time. I’ll be thinking of my stupid therapists, and all of a sudden I’m right back in that hospital room.”

Jim grunts, rubs a hand up and down Oswald’s back. “You know what that feels like, don’t you?” Oswald asks. “Or do you? I bet you do, what with traveling the world hunting people…”

“Sometimes I think of a girl I cared for, when I smell vanilla perfumes,” Jim says. If he holds onto Oswald a little more tightly, neither of them says anything about it. “Her name was Barbara, and she was my high-school sweetheart. I went into the service right after I graduated, got into the Green Berets. Thought I was hot shit. Saw a lot of things, kid, things that make you know you’re not really gonna be okay around civilized people anymore. But if I smell vanilla, I still think about her.”

“If you’re not meant to be around civilized people, why’d you say yes to working for my Uncle Carmine?”

“Saw a picture of you in the file, read about you,” Jim grumbled. “I figured if anybody was left on earth worth saving, it sure as shit was you. You reminded me of everything innocent, Oswald. Gave me a little hope.”

“Oh.”

Oswald clings a moment or two more, and then Jim gently disentangles them. “Come on. If you’re going to get your shower and make it to school on time, then we need to get going.”

“Yeah, okay,” Oswald says. 

Jim helps the boy out of the pool and into the showers. He turns the hot water on and grabs a washcloth and soap. “Let me,” he says.

Oswald blushes, but doesn’t complain as Jim rubs the rag over his shoulders and back, down his chest, over his groin. Oswald’s eyes drop shut and he stretches up on his toes to keep the contact, but Jim growls, “Later, baby, when I can take care of you right.”

“Oh God,” Oswald says. He blushes harder but doesn’t disagree. When Jim finishes cleaning Oswald, Oswald reaches for the rag. “M… may I?”

Jim spreads his arms, inviting. “Oh God,” Oswald repeats, and rubs the rag with soap. “Okay. I can do this.”

“Don’t be afraid of me,” Jim offers, and Oswald glares. 

“I’m not afraid.”

Oswald takes a determined breath and touches the rag to the center of Jim’s chest. He rubs it across Jim’s nipples, down the flat planes of his stomach, and then a quick graze over his cock and balls. “You call that clean?” Jim challenges.

Oswald bites his bottom lip, runs the rag over Jim’s cock again. “Jim you’re so…” he mumbles, getting a little less shy and more curious. The rag touches Jim’s balls and Jim spreads his legs in case Oswald wants to go further.

That gets him a squeak and gasping, so he takes the rag from Oswald’s fingers and cleans himself instead, letting the boy watch him. “Oh my God,” Oswald whispers. “I… I want you to touch me there.”

Jim’s trying not to get hard, but the whispered confession’s more than he can bear. “I will,” he promises, and rests his forehead against Oswald’s. “Soon. But for now, we’ve got to dry off and get back up to the main house.”

“Please today?”

Jim groans and manhandles Oswald out of the shower because if he doesn’t, Oswald’s going to be late. And if nothing else, Jim is still a professional. Damn it.

They end up having to hurry in the end; a quick bagel as they’re running out the door, Jim’s tie forgotten in his room and so he goes with an unbuttoned look; white shirt-black suit-three knives-two guns. He gets Oswald buckled in, slides into the driver’s seat of the Volvo, and gets them on the road. Oswald still has pink cheeks from the rush. “You’re adorable when you blush, Oz.”

“It’s your fault. Wouldn’t blush if not for you.”

“Someone should be smart enough to enjoy it. May as well be me.” Jim’s mood will not be diminished. “We’re almost there. After I park, I’ll…”

“Get my messenger bag and cane, yes, yes, I know the drill.”

“Smart mouth.”

Jim gets the car in park, opens the driver’s side back door and gets Oswald’s cane and bag. By the time he gets around the other side, Oswald is out of the car and leaning carefully against the car door. “I made it out by myself!” he enthuses, grinning at Jim. 

Jim doesn’t grin back, but he tips his head down so Oswald can see his eyes behind the dark glasses he wears. He winks at the boy. “Nicely done, kiddo.”

Jim hands Oswald his cane and adjusts the boy’s tie. “Ready?”

Oswald nods, takes the messenger bag from Jim and slides it over his body. He limps toward the school to start his classes, Jim hovering behind him like a black, deadly shadow. He watches Selina Kyle wave to Oswald and Oswald waves back, smile stretching across his face. “Hey!” he shouts to the girl on the steps.

“You’d better hurry, first bell’s already rung.”

“Hey, blame the driver,” Oswald says, but he limps a little faster. The three of them make it to Kyle’s and Oswald’s homeroom just as the last bell sounds. While Oswald and Selina take their seats, Jim goes to his usual place in the corner of the room and leans against the wall. 

Day twenty five might bore him to death, but night twenty-five looks to be a whole other story.


	6. Five: Like A Virgin (Oswald)

“I told him!” he whispers to Kyle, as soon as the bell rings for lunch. Oswald can hardly keep it to himself any longer. He’s elated, over the moon, as excited as excited can be. “I told him, Kyle.”

Jim and Oswald have a deal; in order for Oswald to be as normal a teen as possible, Jim will hover across the room during the lunch period, and Oswald will eat with whomever he chooses. Oswald appreciates and hates the fact that he can’t eat with Jim in equal measure. He stares at his ‘bodyguard’, watches as Jim opens and drinks a can of chocolate-flavored Ensure. God, the man’s too beautiful.

“Sure you did,” Kyle says. She rolls her eyes. “That’s why he’s still all the way over there, acting like we don’t exist.”

“I’m telling you, I told the man I wanted him, and he was totally onboard.”

“Whatever you’re on, you need to share,” Bruce says, as he slides into the seat next to Kyle’s and tries to steal her fries while she stabs at his hand with a fork. “Are we still talking about KC?”

“Yep.”

Oswald groans. “You guys! Jim’s not Kevin Costner and I am not Whitney Houston!”

“You kind of are,” Kyle disagrees. She gives Bruce a kiss and ruffles his hair so the curls get bigger. “Hi ‘Bee.”

“Hey, Lina,” Bruce replies. They make doe eyes at each other until Oswald pretends to throw up on his lunch. “Shut up, Oz. We need to get you a boyfriend so you can stop fantasizing about KC.”

“It’s not… oh, fuck it. Never mind,” Oswald sighs, and pokes at the fruit and cottage cheese on his plate. “I don’t blame you for not believing me. If I was the one hearing it, I wouldn’t believe me, either.”

“Look, this is the same guy you told me was Satan when I first met him,” Kyle says, patting him on the arm. I know he’s the stuff of your wet dreams, but get over it, sweetie. There’s no way you’re tapping all that.”

Oswald and Bruce make the same horrified noise and face, and she ignores them both. “Whatever, it’s true.”

“That’s not…”

“I don’t want to hear about Oz’s wet dreams!” Bruce says.

And of course, Bruce doesn’t say this at normal volume, no; it’s halfway between shriek and squeak. Several people look over at them and Oswald drops his head to the tabletop with a thunk. “Shut up, stupid,” he hisses. “Oh my God.”

“Sorry.”

Oswald lifts his head and risks a look at Jim, who looks as bored and closed-off as he ever does. Only because Oswald knows to look for the subtler cues – the left-sided tilt of his mouth, the way he’s crossed his arms over his chest – can he tell that Jim’s amused. “And now he’s laughing at me. No, don’t look!” he hisses, as they both turn to stare at Jim at the same time. “Do either of you know how to be discreet?”

“Hi, obviously we just met,” Kyle teases. “I’m Selina, this is my boyfriend Bruce.”

“Aww, you called me your boyfriend.”

“That’s because it’s not nice to call you my slave in public,” Kyle says, flustered, and Oswald snickers at her expense. “And you shut up over there, Whitney.”

“Oh, man,” Bruce says, laughing. “Whitney! That’s so much better than Oswald.”

“If you start calling me Whitney, I’ll kick your ass. No – one better – I’ll _flatten your tires and key your car_.”

“Wow, okay, psychopath, much?” Bruce says, frowning. “And don’t threaten Margaret.”

Oswald shakes his head, but before he can continue, Kyle changes the subject. “’Bee’s right though, Ozzie. We need to get you a boyfriend for prom.”

Oswald clenches his teeth. “I can’t go.”

“Don’t be stupid, just because you can’t dance…”

“No, I mean, I can’t go. Prom’s for juniors and seniors only, remember?”

Kyle looks heartbroken, which in turn makes Oswald feel like crap. “They’ve got to make an exception for you,” she says. “That’s not fair! It’s not your fault you were in an accident, you shouldn’t have to miss prom with your friends!”

“Come on, like anyone would miss me if I wasn’t there. Other than you two,” he amends, when she looks ready to either slug him or cry. “Besides, I don’t want to go stag to prom. People already think I’m pathetic enough, thank you.”

Kyle makes that face she makes when she’s conniving something. She’s had the same look since they were little. “Do you have to poop?” Oswald asks, and that breaks the moment; Selina starts laughing so hard she sags into Bruce. 

Bruce continues eating his sandwich and mutters, “You two are so weird.”

“It’s a gift. Meanwhile, we should go to that new café they opened downtown. I hear it’s a popular place for gay boys to hang out,” Kyle says.

“How do you even know these things?”

“Because I’m Selina Kyle, bitches.”

“Please don’t include me as one of the bitches. I am not a bitch. Also, that’s a terrible thing to say about a lady,” Bruce says, as he continues to ignore the conversation. Then he surprises Oswald by saying, “But I’m happy to go to the café if you want back-up.”

“Back-up? What are you going to do, Bruce? Bite someone in the kneecap if they get rough with me?” Bruce is even shorter than Oswald. “Thanks but no thanks.”

The bell rings and saves Oswald from further persecution. As he dumps what’s left on his plate, he hears Selina call, “I mean it! We need to find you a honey!”

Oswald brings his shoulders to his ears. Jesus. That’s all he needs shouted through the cafeteria, thank God no one’s paying attention because…

“Aww, does gimpy need a boyfriend?” says a voice from behind him.

Oswald cringes, stuffs his plastic utensils into the recycling container, ignoring the voice. He hopes the other boy will leave him alone if he doesn’t say anything, but he’s not so lucky. “Hey, Cobblerpots, you not hearin’ me?”

A hand on his arm turns him around to see Sal Maroni and his little clique of thugs: Edward Nygma, Maria Mooney, and Renee Montoya. God, this is not his lucky day. Even the girls are as mean as Sal. “What do you want?” Oswald asks.

“I was just overhearin’ that you need a honey, and I figured Curly probably meant you need a boyfriend,” Sal says. “Since you seem like the kinda guy that would be good for sucking someone off. You wanna suck me off, Cobblerpots?”

Maria and Renee start laughing. “I wouldn’t be able to suck you off without a microscope’s help,” Oswald says, sweetly, and yanks his arm away from Sal. He tightens his grip on his cane and says, “And leave me alone.”

He thinks that’ll be the end of it; that he can just walk away, but Sal says, “You fucking little…”

Oswald shuts his eyes, waits for the shove, the blow, but there’s nothing. He peels one eye open, but all he can see is the back of a black suit jacket.

Jim.

_Jim has teleported_ , Oswald thinks. He notices how quiet the room is, and peers around Jim’s shoulder.

Oh. Sal’s on his knees on the floor. Because Jim’s got a hand on two of Sal’s fingers, and he’s, “Jim? Did you break Sal’s thumb?”

“No,” Jim growls. “I’m not going to break Sal’s thumb, either. I was just explaining to him how easily accidents can happen when you’re being careless. And I’m sure Sal understands that now. Don’t you, Sal?”

“Jesus Christ,” Sal moans. “Yeah, God, that fuckin’ hurts, please let me go!”

“I’ll be happy to let go,” Jim says. He still looks a minute away from murder. “But I don’t think I heard an apology. Did you hear an apology, Oswald?”

Oswald tugs at Jim’s jacket to get his attention, but unfortunately, it only exposes Jim’s shoulder holster to the rest of the room. Oswald winces, because oops. “I think an apology might be asking more from Sal then Sal’s capable of. But I’m going to be late to class if we don’t go now.”

Jim releases Maroni all at once and the bully drops, wheezing. “Don’t touch Oswald again,” Jim snarls. Jim then puts an arm around Oswald and helps him to a wall. “I’ll get your cane,” Jim says, quietly. The assassin picks up his cane and hands it to him, then hands Oswald his bag. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Oswald replies. The room stays silent until they walk out the door, and then explodes into noise. “That’s probably going to warrant us both a trip to the principal’s office.”

Jim winces. “Yeah. I might’ve overdone it a little.”

“It was kind of hot. Err. I mean, oh my God. Someone please shut me up?”

When Jim turns to face him, he’s grinning, and Oswald hears Kyle explode behind him with, “OH MY GOD, WHITNEY WAS TELLING THE TRUTH.”

The grin fades and Jim looks confused. “What?”

“Nothing, she’s delirious, ignore her, let’s go. Come on! Principal’s office! Chop, chop!” Oswald babbles, and puts a hand on Jim’s arm, giving him a little push. “Class? Principal? Please?”

“You’re not that good a liar,” Jim says, but – to Oswald’s great relief – the man lets it go and let’s Oswald push him toward Principal Essen’s office. “You will explain what Whitney is…”

Jim stops dead in the hallway and Oswald runs into his back. “Jim?”

“Please tell me that’s not a pop culture reference to a particular Kevin Costner film,” Jim groans.

Eep.

“Oswald!”

“What?”

Jim manhandles Oswald to the principal’s office, growling, “There will be words about discretion and the better parts of valor later.”

Eep again. Oswald updates his lists:

A. Jim is a sexy motherfucker;  
B. Jim-the-sexy-motherfucker is mad as hell because Oswald talked;  
C. Jim-the-sexy-motherfucker is probably going to spank him, and   
D. Oswald is totally on board with punishment, whether it hurts his shitty leg or not.

Jim knocks on Sarah Essen’s door, bypassing the two secretaries in the room. Both women look at the storm cloud on Jim’s face and decide that Jim’s direct method will work just fine for them today. When the principal opens her door, she takes one look at Jim, one look at Oswald still in Jim’s grasp, and sighs. “What happened?”

“Salvatore Maroni put his hands on my client,” Jim says, in the most ice-cold professional tone Oswald’s ever heard. “With the express intent of doing harm to his person.”

Principal Essen gives a pointed look to Jim’s hand on Oswald’s arm and Jim lets Oswald go as though burned. Oswald misses the other man’s touch immediately. “I may have been slightly overzealous in the way I handled the situation.”

“Come in,” she says, and gestures for them to enter her office. “And please sit. Oswald, are you all right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Not only did Maroni create a situation that could’ve been physically harmful to my client had I not interfered, I’m sure the school has policies on bullying and harassment.”

“What was said?” Principal Essen asks. She holds up a hand when Jim starts to speak. “Not you.”

Oswald blushes. He doesn’t want to repeat what was said. “He told me that since I don’t have a boyfriend, I should… I should…”

“Sal Maroni told Oswald to suck him off,” Jim replies. “Miss Kyle captured the whole thing on cell phone camera, if you’d like to ask her for a copy of it.”

How did Jim even notice these things?

“Maria, Ed, and Renee were with him,” Oswald adds.

“This might be expected in a public school environment, Miss Essen,” Jim says, and oh no. Jim’s doing manly, ‘I-will-control-the-situation’ things that make Oswald think naughty thoughts. “But surely your students and staff are held to a higher standard.”

“They are,” the principal replies. “But in most circumstances, our students won’t say anything about those four particular individuals. So having filmed proof would go a long way for the school to be able to take action. Mr. Gordon, may I ask what part you played in this?”

“Once Maroni put his hands on Oswald, I let Oswald take the first action, which was to pull away and try to walk away. Which was appropriate, Oz,” Jim says to him. “You always walk away first, I’m proud of you for handling that so well.”

“I antagonized him, though,” Oswald admits. “But it’s not the same! It’s not like I can even fight back anymore, even if I wouldn’t have fought with him…”

“In any case, as soon as Maroni threw a punch, I was between them, and I put the other boy on his knees by pinching a pressure point on his palm. He wasn’t in any immediate danger and he won’t experience any ill effects from the treatment. But I wasn’t going to let him hit Oswald, either.”

Miss Essen picks up her phone. “Judith, would you please call Selina Kyle out of class, please?”

“She’s already here, Sarah,” comes the voice on the intercom. “May I send her in?”

“Yes, please.”

Selina comes in, and the first thing she does is wrap her arms around Jim’s waist and hug him. Oswald snickers at the look of great discomfort on Jim’s face. “That was awesome, Mr. Gordon, the way you stuck up for my Penguin like that!” she gushes.

“Kyle,” Oswald groans. “Do you mind leaving me any dignity?”

Jim clears his throat. “Miss Kyle,” he says, as he pries her off of him. “Did you have footage of the incident in the cafeteria?”

“Yes, I do, that’s why I was waiting to talk to Principal Essen,” Selina says. “I didn’t want anything to happen to you or Ozzie, Mr. Gordon.”

Kyle passes over her phone to the principal, and Oswald can see the whole incident in picture-perfect clarity; his own flinch as Sal’s fist comes up, Jim’s body between them, and then Sal on the floor. Oswald can’t even see Jim move his arm to block the punch, he’s that fast. 

And great, now he’s getting turned on all over again. He must make some sort of sound, because Jim huffs next to him and gives him a stern look. “Don’t worry, Oswald,” Jim says, glaring. “I won’t let him hurt you.”

Oh. Right. That could’ve been a noise of fear, it totally could’ve been a noise of fear. Principal Essen falls for it; Kyle does not. She looks at Oswald and mouths, _OH MY GOD_ and Oswald has to work very hard to ignore her so Jim doesn’t murder him and bury his body out by the guest house.

“Mr. Gordon, while your actions could be seen as somewhat excessive, I believe you acted in the best interests of your client. With his physical disability, a blow such as the one Salvatore Maroni intended could have caused severe harm to Oswald. I’ll be sure to handle that with his parents, when I call them to come and get him for his suspension period.”

“You’re going to suspend him?” Oswald asks with disbelief. “Really?”

“I have both audio and visual evidence, Oswald. Yes, I have enough proof to suspend him. Your punishment for this will be my extreme disappointment.”

“What? Why?!?”

“May I remind you of your comment referencing a microscope?” the principal asks and shakes her head. “Oswald, the idea is to walk away from a fight without further instigation. I don’t see that here. I’m disappointed in you, young man. I know you’re smart enough to know better behavior than that.”

“Aww,” Oswald says, and hangs his head. “I’m sorry. But he bullied me before the accident, he bullies me now, and I couldn’t bite my tongue in time.”

“That’s no excuse. Now go to class,” she says. “Selina, would you please email me a copy of that clip?”

“Yes, Miss Essen. It’ll be my pleasure.”

“Send a copy to me as well, please, Miss Kyle,” Jim says, and Selina agrees. Of course she does. Traitor.

Oswald takes his cane and bag from Jim and they exit the principal’s office. Jim doesn’t look at him. “Are you mad at me?” Oswald asks.

“Not about the microscope comment,” Jim says. He sighs, glances around the empty hallway and says, “I’m not interested in being arrested, Ozzie.”

“That won’t happen!”

“You’re right, it won’t, but only if you keep your mouth shut about certain things. Okay? I’d hate for someone to put a hit out on _both of us_.”

Oswald slinks into his next class, and sulks for the rest of the school day. Great. He’s totally blown his chances for anything later tonight.


	7. Six: Actions and Their Consequences (Jim)

By the time Jim drives Oswald home, Oswald’s managed to work himself into a complete snit. The worst part, Jim can’t even deal with him yet. As soon as they park in the Mayor’s garage, Jim says, “I have a meeting with your uncle in fifteen minutes, and later on you and I will finish our discussion.”

“Whatever,” Oswald sulks.

Jim cuts the kid some slack because no matter how mature Oswald seems to be, he’s still sixteen. “Ozzie,” Jim says. And when Oswald looks at him, he leans over and puts a gentle kiss on the side of Oswald’s head. “Just because I’m pissed doesn’t mean I hate you, kiddo. When I say we’re going to talk later, I mean it. We’re going to talk, like adults do.”

With that, Jim gets out of the car, gets Oswald’s cane and bag, and gets Oswald settled in the house.

He then goes to talk to Don Falcone. And he’s not hoping to meet with Mayor Falcone today; no, he needs the mafia boss to talk to him. One man, two roles. He nods at Falcone’s personal guards, enters the man’s study. “Don Falcone,” he says. “We need to talk. I assume you got the video file from today’s incident?”

“I did. And to be honest, Jim, I wish you’d broken the little prick’s hand.”

Jim nods. He’d talked to Falcone briefly once he’d forwarded on the video file, made the meeting to discuss it at that time. “Do you think the hatred Maroni shows towards Oswald could be influenced by the way Don Maroni feels about you, sir? Where your illegal business ventures are concerned?”

Falcone snorts. “You don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

“No sir, there’s no point to it,” Jim replies. “And I’d very much like an answer to that question.”

“There’s no doubt the animosity is a spillover from Vittorio Maroni,” Falcone says, and Jim sighs. “I also suspect Maroni is behind Trudy and Henryk’s deaths, but we can’t find proof. Unfortunately, the driver of the semi also died in the collision, and he was an unknown person. Definitely not an enforcer or any of Maroni’s people. Why are you asking me this?”

“My job is to keep Ozzie safe,” Jim says. He sits in a chair across from the mafia don’s desk. He watches Falcone’s eyes widen at the use of the pet name. “Since you were honest with me when you hired me, I’ll be honest with you in return: that kid’s the sweetest goddamn kid and he’s grown on me like a bad fungus. I will lie, cheat, steal, and mislead anyone for his protection. There’s no way I’m letting Maroni’s people put their hands on him. If that means you need me to expand my services in your employ, then you should let me know. I’m very good at removing obstacles, shall we say, when it applies to Oswald’s safety. And I’ll do it at any time.”

Falcone sits back in his chair, studies Jim. “Do I need to worry about you with my nephew?” the man asks. 

“No, sir,” Jim answers. He lies, straight-faced, because the only way he’ll be able to keep Oswald safe is to make sure the kid’s by his side at all times. “Remember, we had an agreement; whatever methods necessary without question.”

“As long as Oswald doesn’t get hurt,” Falcone replies, holding up a hand. “You aren’t toying with a sixteen-year-old’s heart, are you?”

“Any means necessary,” Jim repeats. He doesn’t add _Because I’m taking that kid to bed as soon as possible._ “I’m not interested in breaking his heart, Don Falcone. But he’s got to be alive for him to have a heart to break. I may not be playing with him fairly, but it will get the job done.”

Falcone sighs, puts a hand to his face. “No wonder he doesn’t fight you to the last degree like he fights with everyone else,” the man says. “Jesus, you’ve got him wrapped around your finger, is that it? Is he in love with you?”

“Most likely,” Jim says, thinks, _But it’s completely returned._ “This is a win-win situation. Oswald is young enough to still believe in fairy tales, sweet enough and innocent enough to believe me when I tell him I won’t touch him until he’s legal.”

“And what then?” Falcone asks. “You’ll sleep with my nephew to keep him safe?”

“By then, Oswald will have had time to get over his schoolboy crush, and I’ll have had the opportunity to eliminate anyone in the way of his safety. I know I’m asking a lot, Don Falcone. But he gets a lot out of it, too.”

“I don’t approve of your methods,” Falcone says. “Either way, Oswald ends up broken-hearted.”

“You’re the man who hired me because you needed something unconventional to work for a genius kid. I’ve done what was necessary to earn his trust. I can sleep in his room without him pitching a fit. Don’t look at me that way,” Jim says, when Falcone looks mutinous. “I’m on the top of the blankets, and he’s underneath them. He falls asleep with his head on my chest and it’s happened every night for the past week. But the upside? I don’t have to chase the kid out of windows, either.”

“You think he’s safer with you next to him twenty four hours a day, seven days a week?”

“I have a feeling something’s stirring in Gotham, and you’re in the center of it. I learned a long time ago not to dismiss the feelings in my gut. This outburst was just the start. Sal Maroni either knows something or overheard something that puts Oswald in danger. I’d put my life on it.”

“If you’re right, we all might be putting our lives on it.”

“This is what happens when you hire assassins,” Jim says. “We’re suspicious as hell.”

“I find that you and I may be more alike than I first thought,” Falcone says. “I admit your approach to problem-solving and mine aren’t quite the same. But I have to consider that you’ve behaved in Oswald’s best interests in every instance, despite your methods. I also acknowledge that not many men would be so bold or so honest to divulge what could be seen as impropriety with a boy Oswald’s age.”

“I’m a shit liar,” Jim lies. He smiles briefly. “Ask Harvey if you want. Get him to tell you about the wife and the window in Venezuela.” 

Falcone studies him. “What I were to ask you to take care of a problem for me?”

“Does it affect Oswald’s safety?”

“No.”

“Then you’re on your own,” Jim replies. “I’m not getting tangled up with mob business. However, if you can give me good reasons as to why your competition would harm Oswald’s safety, then I think we can bend some rules. Assuming you’re willing to overlook my methodology with Oswald.”

And there it is; a bribe. A twist. Jim would eliminate Falcone’s rivals if Falcone would overlook his attachment to Oswald. Jim steels himself for the outcome.

It takes several minutes, but eventually Falcone nods. He stands up, and Jim stands as well. He’s not sure what to expect when Falcone comes around the desk until Falcone grips his hand. “We Italians have a saying, ‘to make bones’; it means an outsider becomes accepted into our family. I’ll call Harvey on your suggestion, but for you to call this meeting after a month; for you to make inquiries into my other business to keep Oswald safe, it takes guts. I respect that in a man. So welcome to my family, James.”

With that, Falcone kisses Jim’s cheeks, Italian-style. “Thank you, Don Falcone,” Jim replies. “I promise to always respect this promise between us, for Oswald’s continued good health.”

“This calls for a toast,” Falcone says, and Jim sits back in his chair.

One mission accomplished.

He has a glass of wine with Falcone, asks him question after question about Maroni, and after an hour, the man politely excuses Jim so he can return to his business. Jim agrees, exits the office, and heads up the stairs to Oswald’s room.

He doesn’t bother to knock. He pushes open the door to find Oswald stretched across the bed in his underwear, asleep. “Goddamnit,” Jim curses, and then sighs. All the sulking must’ve worn Oswald out. “Oh, kiddo,” he says, dropping on the bed beside Oswald. Jim doesn’t even bother taking off his suit jacket. “What’m I going to do with you?”

Oswald makes a noise of discomfort and Jim moves, draws the blanket over him. He then returns to his spot on the bed, drawing the boy closer. “C’mere, baby,” he coos in the boy’s ear. “Tuck into me.”

Oswald must hear him on a subconscious level, because the smaller man indeed curls closer to Jim’s warmth. Jim strokes a hand over Oswald’s forehead and the boy sleeps soundly, head pillowed on Jim’s shoulder. They stay like that for about twenty minutes until Jim kisses the boy’s forehead. “Ozzie,” he murmurs. “Wake up. If you sleep all afternoon, you’re going to be awake all night.”

“Hmm,” Oswald says. “But I’m comfortable.”

“You don’t have to move, baby. You just have to open your eyes and wake up.”

Sleepy oceanic eyes meet Jim’s. “Jim?”

“Right here.”

Oswald blinks, looks at the way their bodies are touching, and lets out a pleased sound. “You’re so comfortable,” Oswald says, and shifts on the bed. “Also, my leg isn’t throbbing in pain.”

“Do you have a headache?”

“I did earlier, that’s why I fell asleep.”

“And now?”

Oswald frowns. “Now I’m just afraid you’re still pissed at me,” he admits. “I’m sorry about telling Kyle. You’re right; it was really stupid. I don’t want to get you into any hot water.”

Jim smiles. “You’re not stupid, Oz. And I’m sorry too. I forgot what it’s like to be with someone for the first time. You want to tell _everybody_. But our case is a little different.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Me, too. And now I need you to sit up and pay attention, because I’m about to explain how I’ve handled it.”

Jim waits for Oswald to detangle himself from Jim’s body. As soon as the gorgeous boy is sitting up and staring at him, he says, “I told your uncle I was purposely making you fall in love with me. Don’t interrupt,” Jim says, holding up a hand to forestall Oswald’s explosion. “When Carmine hired me, I told him I would work any angle necessary in order to keep you safe, whether or not they were honest or ethical. Are you with me so far? Nod.”

Oswald nods. “Okay. So, my first thought was to entice you with cock, to have you agree to let me stay, and to use that as a way to keep you safe. Oswald, don’t you dare cry,” Jim says, when he sees the shaking bottom lip. “I told you that was my plan. But baby, how could I stick to that plan now that I know you? Now that I know how perfect you are for me?”

“You were using me?”

“No,” Jim says. “I was setting the role I needed to use to accomplish the job. I didn’t know you to use you or not. No matter how much I liked you initially.”

“What changed?”

Jim cups his face. “What changed was that I fell for you, Oz. I love you. When I stopped flirting with you – when I told you that it was your decision to want me or not – I turned over the whole thing to you. Including my bitter, jaded heart,” he says, sighing. “I didn’t want to seduce you for a job. I wanted to be with you because you wanted me back.”

“And you’ve come clean to Uncle Carmine? And he didn’t have you killed?”

“Not clean to Carmine, clean to you,” Jim says. “Carmine thinks this is a game for me still, thinks I’m stringing you along because it’s easier to keep you safe if you’re head-over-heels for me. But this can’t be a game between the two of us, Oz. That means no more bragging to Selina about you and me. If we’re going to make this work in reality, then we both need to be discrete and smart about it.”

Oswald stares at him. “So you led Uncle Carmine to believe this is still a game, so that if it seems like we’re intimate, he won’t lose his shit. Meanwhile, we can be intimate, because you and I are on the same page about what this is between us.”

“That’s about it. And I owe you an apology. For not telling you sooner that what started as a game and a job had me falling hard for you. Today really sealed it for me, kiddo. I was moving to block that punch before I consciously thought about it.”

“And you’ll never play games with me again?” Oswald asks, softly.

“Not unless they’re games we’re playing together, where we both know the rules,” Jim says. “I know you were aroused when I grabbed you earlier, Oz. I know that some types of violence turn you on. Those kinds of games need rules, too. But we’ll discuss everything first. Okay?”

Jim’s heart is in his throat. He wonders if Oswald knows how much power he holds over Jim in this moment. That if Oswald called the whole thing off, it would shatter the last little bit of goodness in Jim’s body. “I really am sorry,” he says.

“I hate that you did that to me,” Oswald says. He reaches out and twines their fingers together. “But being a realist, I kind of see why. I treated you like the enemy when you first came through that door, and you did what you thought you had to do, right?”

“Right.”

“And you love me.”

“Like crazy,” Jim breathes out. “I’ll give you everything of me, Oz, if you want it.”

“And you’ll never do that to me again?”

“Never.”

“Then you should probably kiss me now,” Oswald says. His cheeks get pink, but he holds his ground. “Because I love you, too.”

“Ozzie,” Jim sighs, and meets Oswald’s mouth in a crushing kiss. “Ozzie, my Ozzie,” Jim repeats, and moves his mouth over Oswald’s in gentle frenzy. “God, baby. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

The superior tone in Oswald’s voice makes Jim smile. “You’re going to hold that over me for a long time, aren’t you.”

“Maybe forever. I have the moral high ground _forever_.”

“I’m an assassin, kiddo. Surely your expectations were a bit skewed.”

“I know your heart, Jim Gordon. You can say whatever you want, but I know how you kiss me.”

And really, what can Jim do to argue with that?

They lay in the bed for hours. After the most pleasurable snuggling, Jim prods Oswald to get up, makes him go down the stairs and takes him to the kitchen, where Esther scolds both of them for missing dinner.

“It’s Jim’s fault,” Oswald says. “He made me do my homework.”

Jim did no such thing, but he’d bet his last nickel that if Esther demanded to see Oswald’s homework, Oswald would have everything typed, signed and ready to go. “Just because you intend to pursue that artsy stuff doesn’t mean you get to slack off in math and English.”

“And when have I ever slacked off?” Oswald complains, huffing. “I have a 4.3 GPA!”

“It could be better.”

Oswald takes a pickle off of Jim’s plate and throws it at his head. Jim catches it in midair, pops it into his mouth, and chews.

“That’s so unfair,” Oswald says. “You have the reflexes of a hummingbird!”

“Better than a penguin,” Jim teases. “Don’t forget I’ve seen Mr. Jingles in your closet.”

Oswald blushes bright enough to light a lamp. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No,” Oswald says, reaching over to steal a chip from Jim’s plate. And when Jim lets him, he grins and blows Jim a kiss when Esther isn’t looking. “I don’t.”


	8. Seven: The Changing of the Tides (Oswald)

If Oswald would’ve been asked to predict his life on his eighteenth birthday, he never would’ve been able to correctly guess anything like:

A. His parents’ deaths, and his mourning for them;  
B. His subsequent recovery, including the ability to draw again thanks to the support of an amazing boyfriend/bodyguard who pushed him to listen to those damn shrinks;  
C. His blossomed friendship with his uncle, thanks to the same boyfriend/bodyguard;  
D. His graduating as valedictorian and his acceptance into UCLA’s Fine Arts program, with a partial scholarship, and,  
E. His ability to move to California with said boyfriend/bodyguard for college AND getting their own apartment AND if he wanted to date Jim for real there was nothing his Uncle Carmine could do about it so there.

(Oswald has a feeling that Carmine would be thrilled if Jim and he were together for real. Carmine loves Jim almost as much as Oswald does.)

“Jim? Kevin Costner, where are you?” Oswald calls through his uncle’s huge house. He limps along, but now there’s no cane in sight. “I can’t find enough boxes, do you…”

He trails off as he sees both Jim and Carmine in his uncle’s study, their heads together. “Hey,” he says. “Where did my packing help go?”

Jim grins at him. “There were last minute birthday plans being made in here,” he says. “Things that shall not be discussed until your party on Friday, so don’t even ask.”

Oswald pouts. “That’s so unfair; you’ve both turned against me and started plotting with each other.”

“And we’re very good plotters,” Jim says. “Because I know someone who’ll be very happy with the results. Now what’s up?”

“I’m out of boxes,” Oswald says, and Jim groans.

“Ozzie, you’re not going to need to move your entire room to California,” Jim says. “I promise Carmine intends to let you come back. Don’t you, Carmine?”

The mafia boss holds up his hands. “Please don’t drag me into this,” the man says. “If I get involved, I’ll also be roped into packing. Therefore, I intend to stay neutral.”

Oswald sticks out his tongue. “Meanwhile,” he says, changing the subject. “Has Bruce accepted the invitation?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Kyle promised not to make things awkward between them, since they’re not together anymore, so I’m glad he decided to show. I haven’t seen him since he graduated last year!”

“I know. But I’m glad to hear Selina’s decided to go easy on the kid. Not every couple is destined for longevity.”

“And some couples aren’t destined to be anything but forever,” Oswald says, throwing Jim puppy eyes. Jim grins. 

“I’d like to remind you that neither of you are subtle, nor am I senile and blind,” Carmine interrupts, clearing his throat. “And while we all live under the pleasant delusion that Oswald will still be a virgin when he turns eighteen tomorrow, it doesn’t help when I’m forced to see the two of you looking at each other in such a way.”

Oswald feels his face flush and Jim’s no better, for once. “Uncle Carmine!” Oswald squeaks. “Oh my God!”

Carmine claps Jim on the shoulder. “And while we’re not talking about this, let me tell you how glad I am that I unknowingly played matchmaker for you, and how I also expect great-nephews within the next ten years.”

Jim’s gone from bright red to sheet white. Oswald’s not sure how he himself looks, since his face has gone numb. “That’s… that’s nice, Carmine,” Jim finally stammers. “Thank you? Sir?”

Carmine whoops a laugh at both of them. “Boys. I’m so very glad to have not discussed this with you today. Now shoo, go find more boxes, I have other work to handle.”

“Right,” Jim says. With that, he comes around from behind the desk, _slips his hand into Oswald’s_ , and drags Oswald from the room. 

“Why’re we holding hands?” Oswald can’t help but ask.

“Because your uncle just offered us his blessing,” Jim says. “And since he knows the truth and hasn’t had anyone kill me, I’m not going through the charade of keeping my hands off of you anymore. You’re _mine_.”

“I’m onboard with this plan,” Oswald announces, which causes Jim to grin. “Please feel free to touch me as much and as often as possible.”

“Done.”

They make it up the stairs to Oswald’s room and Jim sighs, takes in the mess around him. “I know we’re going to be sharing a nice apartment, but that doesn’t mean you have to fill the entire thing at one time.”

“But what if I need my stuff? I can’t be without my stuff!”

“I’m sure you can buy some of these art supplies in California. I’m happy to pay for anything you may need, baby. That way we don’t have to unpack it all when we get there.”

“We have movers,” Oswald tries, and that earns him a dark look. “Oh, all right. Help me go through this and I promise to sort some of it out.”

“Thank you,” Jim says. They spend a few hours packing and repacking, and suddenly Oswald has plenty of boxes leftover. 

“I’m not sure I like leaving my coats behind,” Oswald fusses.

“I didn’t say leave all of them. Take one and leave the rest.”

“But I don’t own one coat that coordinates with all of my clothes!”

Jim flops on the bed. “They don’t have to match exactly, Ozzie, they just have to keep you warm.”

“I’m an artist,” Oswald complains. “How can I make good art if I don’t look like I know what colors go together?”

“I guess you’ll figure out a way. Also – here’s a thought – if you need something once we get to California, you can either have it shipped, or I’ll take you shopping.”

This gives Oswald pause. “Shopping?”

“Yes, baby,” Jim says, and his voice drops into the register of ‘pure sex’. “Shopping. I’ll take you into any fine tailor’s shop and spoil you with bespoke suits or whatever the hell you want. Silk underwear. Lace. Ribbons…”

“Now I’m not sure if we’re talking about my taste or yours,” Oswald interrupts, giggling. “Lace and ribbons?”

“I wanna see you wearing sheer panties for me so I can suck you through them. Is that so wrong?”

Oswald wheezes at the mental image. “I would absolutely do that for you.”

“Mmm. You wanna take of those pants of yours now, then? Give me the pre-show?”

Oswald tugs his shirt off. “Fair’s fair,” he says, gesturing to Jim. “Let me see you.”

Jim gets up, goes to the door and clicks the lock into place. He pulls his shirt over his head and turns back to Oswald. “Your turn.”

Oswald’s pants and briefs are already around his ankles and he grins. “I might’ve gotten a little ahead of myself. My sneakers are still tied.”

“I can help with that,” Jim says. He picks Oswald up like Oswald weighs nothing and deposits him on the bed. Jim kneels next to him, leans down and unties his shoelaces. “There. Now let’s get this off.”

The sneakers and socks go first, followed by the rest of Oswald’s clothes. He stretches out on the bed to put his body on display for Jim’s perusal.

Jim makes him feel beautiful in spite of his plated knee and patchwork scars. Oswald gets further proof of Jim’s adoration when the older man groans and bends down to suck Oswald into his mouth. 

“Fuck,” Oswald swears, as Jim impersonates a vacuum. “Oh my God, Jim.”

Jim doesn’t slow; if anything, he swallows harder around Oswald, sliding two fingers along the crack of Oswald’s ass and tapping at his hole. It’s all he can do not to shout at Jim’s aggression, loving the way the man makes Oswald feel like a virgin every time they touch. “I’m not going to last,” he croaks, and Jim hums around him, and that’s it; say hello to a hair trigger. Oswald shoots.

“What the hell was that,” he says to Jim, when he can finally see and talk again.

“Liked the idea of Carmine’s blessing,” Jim says. He shrugs. “I’ve never had anyone approve of me before as someone’s significant other. Never thought anyone would approve of me again, with what I am.”

“What you were,” Oswald stresses. Oswald knows Jim too well. “You haven’t used those particular skill sets in almost a year.”

Oswald knows it had been a year ago when Vittorio Maroni had been found dead in his car, a pistol on the seat next to him, ruled a suicide by police. And then the mysterious disappearance of seven of the man’s closest associates. No one had come after Oswald since; going after Oswald meant going through Jim, and Jim Gordon had proved he wasn’t anyone to fuck with. 

“And I know you, Jim Gordon. You love me enough to do anything to keep me safe. But there’s no one to protect me from now. Except maybe the big bad wolf…”

Oswald nudges a hand into Jim’s lap and Jim exhales. “Am I your big bad wolf?”

Oswald reaches up to Jim’s face and drags his fingers through Jim’s hair. “You’re my everything. Now take off your pants, won’t you?”

Jim finishes undressing, grabs lube from Oswald’s nightstand and crouches over Oswald’s body. He loves being under Jim this way, all of Jim’s muscles and strength on display. “You’re so beautiful,” he says, and Jim smiles. “I mean it. I constantly pinch myself in disbelief that such a beautiful man could be mine.”

“And here I was thinking I was the lucky one, dating the next Picasso. Why would such a gorgeous, talented kid want an old guy like me?” 

“Old,” Oswald scoffs. He grabs at Jim’s shoulders and hikes his left leg around Jim’s waist. “Turn thirty and then we’ll talk about you being old…”

“Why you brat,” Jim laughs. Yeah, they’ve got a year until Jim’s thirty. “I’ll show you old.”

Their mouths meet and the conversation drifts away. Oswald loves the feel of Jim’s cock inside him, connecting them; loves the way it feels when Jim’s come lingers, hot and sticky fullness. 

He loves the way they never bothered with condoms, when Jim’s results came back clean.

“I love you,” he says, when they’re wrapped together under a blanket. He lays his head on Jim’s chest so he can hear the steady beat of Jim’s heart. “I never stop thinking about how lucky I am to have you.”

“That works both ways, Ozzie.”

Oswald smiles and kisses Jim’s nipple. “So then will you tell me what you got me for my birthday?” 

“Not a snowball’s chance in hell.”

“Damn it!” 

Jim laughs. “If I tell you, how will it be a surprise?”

“Are you at least giving me my gift tomorrow, since that’s my actual birthday?”

“We’re going to dinner tomorrow and you get one of your gifts, but you’ll get your big gift on Friday at the party.”

Oswald lifts his head to look Jim in the eye. “You mean I get multiple gifts?”

For his seventeenth birthday, Jim had gotten him a really nice set of oil brushes and a lot of sex. “It’s going to be hard to top last year’s gifts,” he says, grinning. “I really liked last year’s gifts.”

“Yeah, well, you’re eighteen now. It’s a major birthday, baby. And I might’ve gone a little overboard.”

“Overboard, huh?”

“It’s one of the benefits of you dating a rich older man,” Jim teases.

Oswald always forgets Jim’s got a lot of savings in those offshore accounts he’s not supposed to know about. Jim doesn’t act particularly wealthy. “Is that a benefit? I thought it was the snuggles and kisses that were the benefit.”

“You’re going to have to raise your standards to be a proper gold-digger, baby.”

Oswald bursts out laughing and Jim looks pleased. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he giggles, and straddles Jim’s hips. “But in the meantime, I can think of other ways to keep my sugar daddy happy.”

“Say that again,” Jim says, grinning up at him. “I kinda liked it.”

“Sugar daddy? Or just daddy?”

“Mmm. That one. You’re still my good boy, my good birthday boy, aren’t you?”

“Yes, daddy.”

Oswald can feel Jim stirring beneath him and he shamelessly grinds down. “Daddy, is that your cock?” he asks, wide-eyed and innocent. “Is that what it is, daddy? Is that going to fit inside me? It’s so big!”

“Jesus Christ,” Jim growls, and rolls them to the side. He’s on top of Oswald in an instant, sinking his teeth into Oswald’s collarbone. “Do you want that inside you, baby? Do you want daddy to lick your little pink hole so you can take it, hmm?”

Oswald considers the fact that he’s already full of Jim’s come, and knows how much Jim loves to eat him out. “Would you put your fingers in me first, daddy? To see if I could even take your fingers before I tried to take that big, swollen cock?”

“Yeah. Oh yeah, baby, spread your legs for daddy.”

Jim’s fingers are so deliciously thick, even though they’ll never satisfy Oswald the way Jim’s cock satisfies him. “Ooo, they’re so big, daddy! Please daddy, your cock looks so much bigger than that! How’s it going to fit? It’s so biiiiiig!”

Jim raises his eyes to meet Oswald’s and they both burst into laughter. “Okay, maybe that was a little overboard,” Oswald says, giggling.

“Just a little,” Jim says, and wiggles his fingers in Oswald’s ass. “But even though that fantasy is dead and buried, the reality is so much better.”

“Aww.”

Jim moves over him, kisses him soundly. “I love you,” the blond says as he nudges his cock into Oswald’s already-slick hole. “There’s no fantasy that could be half as amazing as the real you.”

“Jim,” Oswald breathes, and kisses his lover. 

“I mean it.”

They move together, slower than the first time, gentler; Oswald arches beneath Jim’s sensual onslaught, baring his throat to the older man and crying out as Jim leaves a trail of love bites across his skin. “Jim, please, I need more!”

The pace doesn’t change; Jim continues to love him, rubbing his belly against Oswald’s stiff prick until they spill together in a comfortable, natural way.

Neither speaks for long moments, until Jim groans and rolls off of Oswald. “I swear you break my brain,” Jim says.

“What? Why?”

“Because you’re going to have a string of bruises around your neck for your birthday party.”

“So I’ll wear a high-collared shirt,” Oswald replies. “You know you’ve wanted to do that forever. You cover me with bite marks everywhere else. Possessive bastard that you are.”

Oswald can see the proof on his own thighs, thankyouverymuch.

“You like my possessiveness.”

“Every damn day,” Oswald grins. “But now, showers, and more packing.”

“Yes, boss.”

Oswald perks up at that. Daddy didn’t work, but Boss?

Hmm.


	9. Eight: Swing Party (Jim)

Jim checks his watch for the three hundredth time and says through the closed door, “Are you ready in there?”

“I still have no idea why I’m dressed this way!” Oswald calls back. “But I’ll go along with it.”

The door opens and Jim’s overwhelmed by the way Oswald looks. He’s dressed in a bespoke three piece black-and-white pinstripe suit, white shirt, and wide black tie. A black felt fedora sits tilted fashionably on his head and he’s got spats on his shoes. “Do I look all right?”

“Fuck me,” Jim breathes. “You look fucking amazing. I could eat you.”

Jim’s wearing the same styling, but he’s got on a grey heather suit with white pinstripes and a maroon tie and pocket square instead. “You’re not so bad yourself,” Oswald says. “But, my party? Why am I in costume?”

“You’ll see.”

Jim escorts him downstairs and to the car; Carmine and the others are already downtown awaiting their arrival. “It’s a costume party?” 

“I’m not telling you anything, Oswald.”

They pull up in front of the 11th Avenue Bar, one of Gotham’s old, traditional bars. “Jim?” Oswald asks, when Jim leads him around to the side-alley entrance. “Jim, what’re we doing…?”

“Hush. You’ll see,” Jim says. He knocks on the door three times, then twice, then three times again.

“Password,” says the man who opens the side-alley door.

“Eighteen,” Jim replies.

The door swings open and Jim puts a hand on Oswald’s back. “Let’s go inside.”

“Jim!” Oswald gushes. “That was so cool! Did you know, that’s how the mob ran speakeasies back in the 1920s, there were special clubs that… oh, my God.”

Jim laughs as they pass through the short kitchen and walk into the main club. “Surprise, baby.”

The club – normally a modern nightclub – had been retrofitted to look like a 1920’s speakeasy. Candlelight bounced off the walls, dark paneled interior and leather booths and… “Is that the Brian Setzer Orchestra?” Oswald squeaks.

“SURPRISE!”

Suddenly, the empty club fills with familiar faces; Carmine, Kyle, Bruce, Kyle’s parents, Bruce’s mother, two of Oswald’s cousins, several of the friends he’d made in his last two years of high school. Thirty people in 1920s costuming surround Oswald, cheering him hello and happy birthday.

“This is what you and Uncle Carmine were planning?”

“Come on, Ozzie. You listen to swing and jazz music non-stop, and I’ve even seen you dancing to it,” Jim says. 

“This is… this is the best!” Oswald says, and hugs Jim. “Oh my God, thank you both so much! Uncle Carmine!”

Jim relinquishes his hold on his partner in time for Carmine to squeeze him. “This is amazing! That’s _The Brian Setzer Orchestra_ , this is a speakeasy and oh my God!”

Carmine laughs. “I can’t take credit, it was Jim’s idea. But I knew you’d love it. Happy birthday, Oswald.”

“Penguin!”

Selina Kyle shakes over in a red-sequined flapper dress, wearing pearls, a wide head band, and white gloves that reach her elbows. “Do you love it? Isn’t it gorgeous in here?”

“This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen,” Oswald gushes. “Jim! Would you dance with me? Please?”

Jim’s never been so willing to oblige Oswald. He offers the younger man his arm and leads him to the dance floor, and the band starts up a slow number for them.

“This is the best birthday idea ever.”

“So you like it?”

“Like it? Are you crazy? I love it!”

“Good. I’m glad. I told you I may have gone a little overboard.”

Oswald laughs. “I can’t believe the bar allowed all the changes,” he says. “It must’ve taken weeks to put this together!”

“They were very accommodating,” Jim says. “And I didn’t care about the time it took, I just wanted it to be perfect for you.”

“I desperately want to kiss you right now.”

“It’s your eighteenth birthday, baby. If you want to kiss me, then kiss me.”

Oswald stops swaying with the music, wraps his fingers in the front of Jim’s suit jacket, stands up on his tiptoes, and plants one on Jim. Jim pulls him a little closer and kisses him back. They break apart only when a sharp wolf-whistle sounds. “Kyle,” Oswald says, blushing. “You know it was Kyle.”

“YOU GO WHITNEY!”

“I think the whistle was Bruce,” Jim says. “The cat-calls, definitely Kyle.”

Oswald groans and looks at the rest of his guests. “I suppose we should be social?”

“For a while, anyway.”

Oswald grins and laces their fingers together. He drags Jim back to the group and they sit in one of the booths, everyone squished and talking and laughing.

The bartenders serve them “mocktails” of juices and soda and big fruity displays; Jim has no problem going non-alcoholic for the evening and loves the look on his partner’s face when Oswald receives a brightly colored drink with a ball of ice cream in it. Jim pulls his phone from his pocket and snaps a candid of Oswald with his nose covered in vanilla cream. “Delete that at once!” the birthday boy orders.

Jim leans in for a kiss instead, and the two of them end up blinded by the flash of… Carmine’s camera? “One for posterity,” the older man says. “Sit together, you two.”

Jim pulls Oswald into his side and Oswald sinks into him like he belongs there. “You two are too adorable,” Kyle says, and Oswald rolls his eyes.

Jim thanks her and makes a mental note to chase down all the guests for copies of their photos.

The evening runs late; there’s dancing, and Jim watches Oswald try a Charleston with Kyle’s Nanna Beverly. He tries not to find Oswald adorable when dancing with an eighty-year-old woman and fails. Especially since the two dance with the same degree of coordination.

“Hey,” Jim says, when the pair returns to the table. “Does your leg need a rest?”

“I think she wore me out,” Oswald says, and gives Beverly a hug. “Thank you for teaching me how to do that!”

“Next time you can teach it to your young man,” Beverly replies. “This old lady would be happy to watch him shuffle around. Oh my.”

Jim’s grateful for the darkened atmosphere so she won’t see him blush. “Thanks, Beverly.”

“Don’t worry dear, it’s my pleasure.”

The band dies down at one thirty, and by two a.m., the only people left in the club are Jim, Oswald, and Kyle. For a special treat, the “mocktails” have vanished and been replaced by a bottle of Cristal. Jim doesn’t mind; neither Selina nor Oswald is driving, and he’s watching them like a hawk. 

“I can’t believe you rented the club for the evening,” Oswald giggles, picking up his fourth glass of champagne. “This was the coolest birthday. I love my suit. I love this bubbly! It’s so… I love you, Jim, you’re so perfect and pretty and wonderful…”

Jim bursts into laughter. “Thanks, Ozzie,” he says, taking the glass away from his partner. “But now I think you’ve had enough of the bubbly stuff, okay?”

“But it’s yummy!”

“Glad you liked it, sweetie.” Kyle says. “I admit, I had a lot of fun getting dressed up all girlie like this.”

“And you look amazing.”

“I know.”

Jim snorts at Selina’s confidence and she smiles. “Don’t mock me, Gordon,” she says. “I know where you sleep.”

“So do I,” Oswald says. He gives Jim a sleepy, dopey smile. “He sleeps right next to me so I can snuggle into those big strong arms.”

“Oh my God, why is no one recording this?” Kyle asks Jim. “This would be the perfect blackmail material.”

“No one’s blackmailing anyone,” Jim sternly commands. He nudges Oswald and Oswald collapses against him, still giggling. “I think it’s time to take the birthday boy home and tuck him in.”

“Can I have a blowjob?”

Jim groans and covers his face with his hands. “Oswald!”

“What? It’s my birthday; I should totally get a blowjob!”

Selina’s close to falling out of the booth with laughter, and Jim just shakes his head. “We can negotiate later,” he says, hoping this will put an end to Oswald’s line of thought.

“While we’re negotiating, can we talk about the handcuffs?”

Or not. “Only if you promise not to speak until we’re home.”

Oswald mimes zipping his lips, but instead of his lips he mimes zipping his eyebrows because he’s that wasted. “How did this happen on four glasses of champagne?” Jim laments.

“I don’t know, but it’s hilarious,” Kyle says. “You should drive me home now and take him to bed.”

“Good idea,” Jim says. He gets out of the booth and helps Oswald stand up, then scoops Oswald up bridal style. “Come on, Kyle. You can open the doors for me.”

“Sure.”

They get to Jim’s car, get Oswald into the backseat, and by the time he’s buckled in, he’s asleep. “I guess he’ll have to open his present tomorrow.”

“I know he’ll love it,” she says, buckling herself into the passenger seat. “He’s gonna flip out with excitement.”

“You do think it was too much?”

“Tickets to the San Francisco symphony for when you guys get out there? No, I think it’ll be just perfect.”

“You know his mom was going to take him when he got older,” Jim says, quietly. “Sometimes I think about how selfish this is; if he hadn’t lost her, I’d never have met him.”

“I know,” Selina replies. “I’m not religious, not like Nanna, but she’d probably say something about God closing a door and opening a window.”

“Besides,” Selina continues. “Oswald once told me you were in the military before you became a bodyguard. I… I know there’s probably more to it that he won’t tell me, but… but Jim. If anyone has the skills to protect him from everything out there, it’s you. And what’s more, you really love him. So I’m glad you came into his life, whether it was under perfect circumstances or not. Okay? He’s my brother and you’re the nicest pedophile he ever could’ve met.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jim says, shaking his head. “Thanks, Kyle. Thanks a fucking bunch.”

She grins. “Oh, come on. It’s not like Ozzie’s ever been restrained in his undying adoration of your person.” 

She’s got a point.

“And it’s not like you aren’t just as bad.”

“I am not,” Jim protests. “I am the very picture of discretion.”

“Oh really? So it was a vacuum cleaner that attacked Oz and gave him that necklace of bruises?”

Oswald’s loud snores save him from having to reply. He thanks whatever lucky stars he has and gets her to her house. “Thanks for the ride.”

“No problem. I know he’ll call you in the next day or two.”

“He better, since you guys are leaving for California in less than a week!”

_Leaving for California in less than a week._

“You hear that, Oz?” Jim asks the unconscious boy in the backseat. “Pretty soon it’s just going to be you and me and the California sunshine. Do you think you can stand it?”

Jim doesn’t get an answer, wasn’t expecting one. But he finds himself grinning as he drives them home all the same.


	10. Nine: Los Angeles, I’m Yours (Oswald)

Oswald doesn’t acknowledge the motorcycle that shakes the windows of the Fine Arts building. He simply dips his brush into his palette, picks up a smear of Venetian Red on his brush, and applies it to the extravagant rose he’s painting.

“That looks like a photograph,” the girl to his left says, looking at his easel. “That’s amazing.”

“Thank you,” he replies politely. Her name is Leslie and Oswald doesn’t like the way she flirts with him, even though he’s repeatedly told her he has a boyfriend. He doesn’t say anything more because he doesn’t want to encourage her.

“So are you going to that party up on the hill this weekend?”

Ugh! “No.”

“But you should! Come on, Oswald. I’ve never seen you anywhere on campus except in class, and I know practically everyone. You should get out and socialize more!”

He blinks at her. “I don’t live on campus or spend much time here because I have other interests,” he says. “But I socialize a lot in my own way, thank you.”

And it’s true. Jim, being the rich bastard that he is, had decided to invest in some incredible camera equipment, and has been driving the two of them up and down the California coast on weekends so he could take photos. (If Oswald’s not wearing much in some of those photos, it’s nobody else’s business.) 

“Oswald?”

“Hmm?”

“I just asked you a question. I wanted to know if you didn’t come to parties because you’re single? I know you keep telling me about a boyfriend, but no one else seems to know him, either.”

“Have you been talking to people about me?”

She shrugs. “You’re really cute and sweet, it’s not…”

And then she stops talking, stares at the classroom door. Oswald notices how quiet the room gets. “Whoa,” she says, eyes widening. “Please someone tell me he’s our next life drawing model.”

Oswald turns to see what she’s staring at. His eyes start at the floor: black, thick motorcycle boots show under dark, painted-on blue jeans that hug the man’s muscular thighs, showcase an amazing bulge. Then there’s a black leather belt and a skin-tight black tee shirt that highlights rippling abs and ripped biceps. But the best part? That’s the man’s blue, blue eyes and close cropped blond hair. 

Oswald grins. “Hey babe,” he calls. “Over here.”

Jim’s gaze locks onto Oswald and the severity in his face fades into a brilliant smile. “Hey Oz,” he says, slinging a motorcycle helmet from one hand to the other. He bends when he gets to Oswald’s stool, drops a quick peck on his mouth. “I was on my way home and thought I’d swing by, since this is open-studio day.”

“We always welcome guests,” Oswald says, grinning, and tugs Jim down for another not-quite-so-polite kiss. “I’m glad you’re here! Jim, this is my classmate Leslie. Leslie, this is my partner Jim. The boyfriend no one knows about.”

Leslie’s gaping. It’s not attractive, and it couldn’t make Oswald happier. Jim offers her a dismissive nod and says, “Did you want me to stick around for a while? I could take you to lunch after your class.”

“I’d really love that,” Oswald replies. “There’s a spare stool in the corner, if you want to drag it over and sit next to me? There’s only about ten minutes left.”

As soon as Jim heads to the back of the room, Leslie says, “I take back everything I thought about you.”

“You mean, me and my pretend boyfriend?” Oswald widens his eyes to mock-innocent proportions. “Thanks.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It would be better if you stopped while you’re ahead,” Oswald sniffs, and goes back to his painting. Jim rejoins them quickly and Oswald smiles. “Was that motorcycle I heard yours?”

“Yeah.”

Oswald shakes his head. “You finally broke down and bought one.”

Jim grins. “Only to be driven safely during the day on low-traffic streets,” he teases, because he knows that Oswald worries. “Maybe I can take you for a spin after lunch?”

“Hmmph.”

“Aw, baby, don’t be like that,” Jim says, batting his eyes at Oswald, and Oswald laughs. “You know you want to get on the back and wrap yourself around me.”

“Yeah, yeah. Before there’s any wrapping, I’ll put you to work carrying my supplies to my car.”

And that was the eighteenth birthday gift that Jim and Carmine had gotten him: a custom-made automobile that used hand-pedals for the gas and brakes so that Oswald could learn to drive.

Oswald loved his car more than any other inanimate object on the planet.

“Pack mule, at your service,” Jim says, interrupting his musing. “Do your worst loading me up with your stuff to carry.”

“Don’t tempt me or I’ll make you carry me, too.”

“Didn’t I have to do that recently? At a birthday party? I seem to remember the birthday boy getting into the champagne…”

“Yes, yes, I was there, thank you very much,” Oswald says, and sticks his tongue out at Jim. “That was months ago.”

Jim grins and Oswald lightly kicks him with his bad leg. “You’re a bad, bad man.”

“I know. That’s why you like me best.”

No argument there. 

When the clock strikes noon, the students pack up; Jim, so used to Oswald’s art, helps with precise efficiency. Soon, Oswald’s rolling cart is packed and he’s ready to go. “I’ve got the cart, you’ve got your messenger bag, is there anything else?”

“Nope. Just need to put all of this in the backseat.” Because Oswald would die to see someone putting paint tubes in a trunk. He tugs Jim out of the classroom and into the hallway to the elevator. “And then I’ll take you to that little vegetarian place on campus.”

“Wow, sounds delicious,” Jim says, making a face. “Isn’t there anything with meat around here?”

Oswald’s gaze drops to Jim’s zipper and back, and Jim arches an eyebrow at him. “Wow. You’re a bad, bad boy.”

No argument there, either.

The elevator doors open and close, spilling them into the main hall, and then into the fresh California sunshine. Oswald notices several heads turning to stare at Jim, and he startles when Jim reaches out with his free hand to twine their fingers together. “There,” the blond says. “That’s better.”

Oswald ducks his head. “I think so, too.”

“You know I showed up because I wanted to meet the girl who kept pissing you off.”

“I know. Possessive bastard.”

“You bet your sweet little ass, Ozzie.”

Jim’s tone of voice makes him shiver. “Stop turning me on in public,” he chastises, and Jim just gives him a slow, heated smirk. “I mean it.”

They make it to Oswald’s Lexus and stash his art supplies and canvas in the drop-cloth covered backseat. “So, to the vegetarian place?”

Jim grumbles and Oswald grins. “How about we go to Del Taco?”

“You _do_ love me,” Jim says. 

“I do.”

Jim straddles the bike first when they reach it, then gives Oswald a hand as he gets onto the back. Once they’ve both donned helmets, Jim kicks the bike on and expertly drives them to the nearby Mexican restaurant. “Is there anything you can’t do?” Oswald asks, when they’re seated and eating. “Can you fly a plane? Drive a motorboat? Should I refer to you as ‘007’ from now on?”

“I always kinda liked Alec Trevelyan. 006,” Jim clarifies. “Faked his death and then tried to take over the world.”

“Good grief.”

“But if you wanted to role-play secret agents, I could get behind that. You’d look good in a suit with a shoulder-holster.”

Oswald shakes his finger at his lover. “What did I just tell you about turning me on in public?”

Jim takes a bite out of his taco and ignores Oswald’s complaints, and Oswald sighs. “What do you want to do tonight? Movie and dinner at home?”

Oswald had started putting his organizational habits to good use, so their apartment had a lived-in, comfortable feel without being a messy disaster. In addition to the apartment, Jim was becoming a hell of a cook in his free time. So nights in were some of Oswald’s favorites.

“That sounds good. Or we could take the bike up the coast to Ventura and grab sandwiches somewhere on the road. Maybe have a beach picnic? It’s too gorgeous out to stay inside.”

Oswald blows a raspberry. “Bullshit. You just want to drive the bike.”

“That, too.”

“I’m good with taking a drive. I might want to lay down for a little while first? That stool this morning isn’t the most comfortable thing to sit on for long periods of time.”

Jim sits up, concerned. “Then are you sure the bike’s a good idea? I don’t want you sore, Ozzie.”

“I’ll be fine, as long as I can stretch out for a while before we go. Really.”

“Okay.”

They finish lunch; Jim drops Oswald off by his car and then Oswald follows him home. After unpacking his paints and fussing with a few things in the apartment, he makes good on his threat to lie down. But the nap comes with benefits – Jim snuggles down with him and cuddles him while he stretches. 

At six, they’re up again, redressed, and heading up the coastline towards Ventura. After an hour’s ride, Jim pulls the bike off the road in front of a little bistro. “Come on. I read about this place.”

“This doesn’t look like a sandwich shop on the beach,” Oswald says, and gestures at his own jeans and tee. “Are we underdressed?”

“It’s fine, I promise.”

When they get in the restaurant, Jim requests a table by the glass windows, which surprises Oswald, because Jim never wants to sit anywhere except for the best vantage point in a room. Also, windows? Assassins hate windows. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather sit near the back?”

“This is where we’re sitting,” Jim says. Oswald shrugs and leaves it alone. 

When seated, Jim orders wine for them both, along with surf and turf. Strange thing number two. When the waitress leaves, Oswald gives his lover a suspicious look. “Jim? What’s going on? You never order for me and you’re being all weird.”

“Weird?”

“Weird.”

Jim glances out the window and Oswald follows his gaze. There’s nothing strange going on outside that Oswald can see, and he’s confused. “Is there a sniper outside going to take me out?” Oswald asks. “Is that why we’re sitting by the windows? Couldn’t you just break up with me like a normal person?”

“What? No!” Jim says. He gapes at Oswald. “I’m not breaking up with you or having you killed, what the hell’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t know!” Oswald hisses. “Why are you acting like a damn pod person?”

Jim glances down at the table and covers his face, shoulders shaking. For a minute Oswald thinks he’s crying until a hiccupped giggle escapes Jim’s lips. “What the fuck, Jim.”

Jim shakes his head. He stands up and reaches into his front pants pocket, pulls out a black velvet box. “I’m not breaking up with you,” he says, going down on one knee. 

Oswald’s eyes go very, very wide. “Jim?”

“So in about an hour, there will be fireworks outside,” Jim says. “I was going to do this after dinner, but because I’m in love with someone who’s too damn observant for his own good, I’m going to do this now. Listen up, Ozzie. Are you paying attention?”

Oswald nods, mute. 

“Good. So, like I said, you’re observant. But you’re brilliant, and talented, and the sweetest kid I’ve ever met. I’ve loved you since practically the minute I met you, even if it took me awhile to realize it. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you, by your side, and you by my side. So Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, Whitney to my Kevin, would you please make me a very happy man and agree to be my husband?”

Oswald starts nodding again, works very hard not to cry. “I love you, Jim,” he says, and pulls the blond man forward for a kiss.

The restaurant bursts into wild applause. Oswald hardly remembers what he eats once the platinum band slides over his finger; he can’t see the fireworks when they go off, even though he knows they’re probably magical. The only thing he can focus on is the face of the man whom he adores more than anything else in the world.

It’s enough.

~Fin~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so. I am marking this complete; however, thanks to rowenaaine & leoben, I am also writing a timestamp to this 'verse. So stay tuned. :)


	11. TIMESTAMP: Cherry (Jim)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OUTTAKE for rowenaaine & leoben. Thanks ladies for the encouragement. Jim and Ozzie's first time.

Ozzie is seventeen. Seventeen. The big one-seven. Oh God, Jim is going to hell.

He looks down at the boy (man?) he’s kissing, all wide-eyes and spread legs and beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. “I love you,” he says, and swallows the answer out of his boy’s mouth. 

They’re in the guest house; Ozzie had been complaining about his newest therapist, and he’s been arguing with Jim for twenty minutes. This led to kissing, but they’ve yet to agree on the new guy. Jim hates them in general, but Ozzie’s willing to give therapy another chance for Carmine’s sake, because Carmine’s asked him to go back. Jim doesn’t like the new guy. “That’s because you’re jealous,” Ozzie says, annoyed.

“No, I’m not jealous, but I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

“Because that doesn’t scream jealousy at all!”

“Ozzie, that man’s going to put his hands on you at some point, and when he does, I’m going to cut him into tiny chunks and distribute his remains across the state in a wide, bloody smear.”

“Well, that’s not jealousy, either, you ridiculous serial killer.”

Sometimes Jim hates that his little lover isn’t afraid of him anymore. “I’m just saying…”

“Oh my God! Fine, I’ll start seeing a different therapist!”

“Well it’s not like this one is doing a damn thing to help you,” Jim glowers. “You don’t look any better when you come home then you do when you go. Aren’t you supposed to be getting something out of this, other than wasting Carmine’s money on an asshole that isn’t helping you?”

Oswald sighs, reaches up to cup Jim’s face. “We were making out. How did we stop making out and start arguing?”

“Maybe because you’re a stubborn brat and not taking your therapy seriously, and I would be much happier to see you feeling better as opposed to letting that asshole put his hands on you.”

“It’s not like he touches me in any way weird,” Oswald says, which makes Jim more pissy. “It’s just a hand on my shoulder. It’s not like the man took off his pants on the first day I met him.”

Whatever.

“You still can’t paint,” Jim says, and that effectively kills the humor Oswald was going for. “You’re supposed to go talk about your feelings to someone so you can get your art back, and this guy’s not doing a damn thing to help. Even I’m more useful than he is.”

“It’s not like flipping a switch!”

“Then what does he give you for guidance?”

Oswald frowns. “Guidance?”

Jesus Christ. “Yes, Ozzie, guidance. When I was in the Army, even though I hated the shrinks, I got worksheets and tasks to perform when I was done with my sessions. I know you’re not really into discussing this particular topic, but I don’t see you doing anything to help.”

“You’re really worried about this,” Oswald says, and blinks up at him. “I mean, this is more than jealousy talking, isn’t it?”

“Oz,” Jim sighs. “I just want you to be able to get the scholarship you want to California. I want you to be able to come out here, pick up a brush, and reconnect with your inner Van Goat and be able to think about your mom without your hand shaking. That’s seriously all I want, and the asshole isn’t helping with any of those things.”

Ozzie cracks a smile. “Van Gogh,” he corrects. “Smartie.”

Jim leans down and kisses him again. “I love you so much,” he repeats. “I know you’re amazing right now, as you are, no changes. But I also know you’re going to regret missing out on college and art school if you don’t find a way to get around from that block you’ve got. This guy isn’t doing dick, and there’s nothing that says you can’t change therapists. Okay? It’s not like you only have one choice.”

“I’ll ask Carmine to find someone else,” Oswald says, looking up at Jim from under his eyelashes. “Okay? I promise. Because I want to paint again, too.”

“Good.”

“And I’ll go talk to a woman so you stop freaking out at me or sounding like a serial killer.”

“That might help,” Jim confesses, and Oswald laughs in his face. “Don’t be smug.”

“No, me? Not me. Hey, speaking of things, did you hear that the Gotham P.D. caught a real serial killer the other day?”

Jim has not heard about this and he pulls back to look Oswald in the face. “No… I didn’t. How did _you_ hear about it?”

“It was on the news! They found the guy slumped over his breakfast with a milk mustache and a banana in his ear.”

Jim blinks; Oswald grins. “Get it? A ‘cereal’ killer?”

“Why do I find you attractive?” Jim bemoans. He tickles Oswald, making the smaller man giggle. “So, what do you want to do this afternoon? Watch a movie?”

“Maybe? Or… maybe we could stay here and keep kissing,” Oswald says, and bats his eyes ridiculously. 

Jim grins, kisses his boy again, delves deeper into Ozzie’s mouth with his tongue, loving the way Ozzie sighs. They’ve been dancing around it for months; capital S-e-x because it’s going to be Ozzie’s first time.

Sure, there’s been groping; nudity, hand jobs, and he’s even gone down on Oswald a few times. But getting his dick wet and into Ozzie? Jim’s equal parts horrified and mesmerized by the idea of taking Oswald’s virginity. He knows how lousy his own first time was, and he wants to make Oswald’s something spectacular. Which is easier said than done. He’s got two condoms in his wallet that he’s been carrying around like a goddamn beacon, but he’s yet to be able to bring himself to use them.

Oswald’s ruined him. He never used to think about fucking before he’d fuck someone.

“Jim?”

Jim makes a sound of agreement; says, “Sorry what?”

“Did… um. Did my joke totally kill the mood? Or was it because I agreed to go to a different therapist?”

Jim’s a dick. “No, baby,” he says, and leans down to capture Oswald’s mouth with his own. Damn it. He never wants to make Oswald feel uncomfortable; he knows that Oswald’s waiting for Jim to change his mind because Ozzie has terrible self-image issues. “That’s not it. I was just thinking…”

He takes a breath. “Sometimes I have trouble kissing you because I want to take it further. A lot further, and at the same time I don’t want to pressure you for anything you’re not ready for. So yeah, I want to kiss you. I want to kiss you all the time.”

“But we’ve done… other things already?”

“I know. And the more we do, the more I want. I’m sorry, Ozzie, you don’t have to want it just because I do.”

Ozzie has the audacity to laugh at Jim’s speech. “Are you kidding me? I thought you were dead set on waiting for me to be legal so you wouldn’t get arrested! We could’ve been banging like monkeys all this time already? Good God, get naked, you cock block!”

“Banging like monkeys?” Jim asks, bemused.

“Please stop talking,” Ozzie says. “You’re wasting time when you could be naked. James Gordon, I’ve wanted you to take my virginity for _weeks_.”

Oh. Well, shit. “I don’t have lube.”

Oswald flails a hand at his art box. “I have Vaseline in my art box.”

“You’re keeping lube in your art box?”

“No, you big goober. I use it on my brushes to keep them from drying out. But I’m okay with having a dual-purpose product.”

Jim chuckles, gets off of the sofa, and trots over to Ozzie’s giant box of art supplies. When he finds the jar of Vaseline, he holds it up triumphantly. “Found it.”

In the time it’s taken him to find lube, Ozzie’s managed to pull off his clothes. 

“Slow down,” Jim says, returning to the couch. “Now that we’re here, we’re not going to rush it.”

“Jim…”

Jim sighs, bends over his boy and licks Ozzie’s cock from root to tip. “Patience.”

“Oh my God!”

Jim tugs his own shirt over his head, unlaces his boots and yanks them off. He strips out of the rest of his clothes efficiently, then says, “I wish we were doing this in a bed.”

“But now, every time I’m in the guest house, I’ll have wonderful memories as long as you get over here and do something. Anything. Maybe before I’m old.”

Jim laughs at the expression on Oswald’s face. “You’re freaking adorable.”

“I’m over here trying to entice you with all this,” and here Oswald waves a hand at his own nudity, “and you want to tell me I’m adorable?”

“Yes.”

Pink travels from Oswald’s ears to his bony, definitely-adorable kneecaps. “Oh. I’m okay with that.”

“Good.” Jim stalks back to the sofa, Vaseline in his hand. “Because you’re my little beauty and you should know I like looking at you all of the time.”

When he sits down, he pulls Oswald up and into his lap, curling his body around the smaller man’s. “Face away from me and spread your legs so your legs fall on either side of my thighs,” he says. “And trust me, okay?”

“Okay.”

When Oswald gets appropriately situated, Jim wraps an arm around Oswald’s waist and wraps his hand around Oswald’s cock. He strokes in and Ozzie spasms, grinds down onto Jim’s lap. “What’re you doing?” he moans. “I thought you were going to fuck me!”

“I will. I want you to get off once first.”

“I want to come when you’re in me!”

“Baby, you will, promise,” Jim says. “But you’re not going to enjoy it if you’re teetering on the edge the entire time I’m fingering you. Trust me. This will get the edge off so you can enjoy what’s happening.”

“But… oh, like that… aren’t you… _Oh my God, what’re you doing?_ ”

Jim’s taken the hand not jerking Oswald off and snuck it between their bodies, rubbing the pads of his fingers against Ozzie’s hole. “This is where I’m going to be,” he says, quietly, speaking directly into Oswald’s ear. “This tight little pucker’s going to bloom around my fingers, open for me so I can get my dick into you. And you’re going to feel every inch, Ozzie, until you’re stuffed full of me, as close and two people can be.”

Ozzie’s panting, making little high-pitched whines of pleasure. His hips are moving back and forth in counterpoint to Jim’s fist, his eyes are closed, and his mouth’s hanging half-open. 

He’s beautiful.

“You want that, baby?” Jim asks. “You want to be under me, split open with cock, grabbing at my shoulders and gagging for it?”

“ _FUCK_.”

He holds Oswald as the orgasm trembles through his body, kissing the back of Oswald’s neck and stroking his back like a spooked horse. “Good boy. Good boy, breathe.”

“I love your mouth,” Oswald says, and Jim grins at the back of his head. “Oh God, I never thought I’d be with someone who could talk me into coming.”

“It’s because you’re such a visual person. So I can’t paint, but I’ll talk you a picture instead.”

“Love it,” Oswald pants. He squirms and turns in Jim’s lap; he’s already half-hard again. Ah, youth. “I love it when you make me come. Do it again?”

Naughty Ozzie is Jim’s favorite. “My pleasure,” he says, and tips the younger man over onto the couch. They move around so that when all is said and done, Jim’s crouched over Oswald’s body, and Ozzie’s spread out on the sofa beneath him. “It’s easier if you’re on your hands and knees, but I want to look at you,” Jim says. “I can’t imagine not seeing you, Oz.”

Oswald blushes again. “I want to look at you, too.”

And so Jim begins: a kiss to Ozzie’s mouth, one under his left ear, one on his breastbone over his heart. A nip to his stomach. A quick tongue bath to his cockhead, already perked up and ready. He spends time priming Oswald’s body, not that his boy needs it. But Jim loves to taste and tease and work the smaller man up.

By the time he’s got a single lubed finger in Oswald’s ass, Ozzie’s hardly aware of the breach. Exactly like he planned. He wiggles the finger and Oswald yelps. 

“Feel okay?”

“I didn’t… I hardly felt that!”

“I told you, I’m not interested in taking you quickly or making you hurt,” Jim says. He wiggles in a second finger, making Oswald yelp again. “How’s it feel?”

Ozzie sighs. “It’s good, but weird? It’s like… it kinda feels like I have to use the bathroom. Full.”

“God, baby. If you think two fingers is full, maybe we should stop.”

Oswald’s look of outrage has Jim grinning. “If you stop, I will pay someone to… to hunt you down!”

“You’re sure?”

“Shut up, give me another.”

“Bossy.” But Jim obliges. He watches Oswald’s ass suck his fingers in and he can’t help but get harder. “You’re amazing.”

“Am I?”

But Oswald’s breathing hard, not really focusing on Jim’s words. He’s clenched around Jim’s fingers, arching his back to eliminate the discomfort. Jim shushes him and kisses him, pulls one of his fingers out to give Oswald a chance to catch his breath.

“Let me know when you’re okay.”

“Oh. I’m all right,” Oswald says, gasping. “It’s just a lot. I didn’t think it would be so, um. Intimate? You’re inside me, even with fingers, and it’s a lot.”

“I want to be intimate with you,” Jim says. “I want to be the person you trust most. I love you for more than what I can see. It’s all the parts of you that make me want you. And I’ll give you everything of me, too.”

Oswald tugs at Jim’s shoulders and Jim leans down to kiss him again. He gives those two fingers a wiggle, says, “One day, you’ll do this to me, you know.”

Oswald makes a sound like he’s been punched in the nuts. Jim says, “This isn’t a one-way thing, Ozzie. I’ve topped for a long time, haven’t received in years. But I want to open myself to you. But you gotta relax for me, the same way I’ll be relaxed for you. Okay?”

“Oh, God.”

“Breathe, baby. Unclench.”

He can see it in Oswald’s face, feel it in Oswald’s thighs and ass when Oswald starts to calm down. “I’m going to try that third finger again.”

“Please…”

The process of opening Oswald up goes more smoothly. Jim manages to tear the condom package open with his teeth, rolls the rubber down his cock and throws on a gallon more Vaseline just to be safe. They’re going to have to burn the couch, but it’s worth it.

Oswald cries out when Jim removes his fingers. “Please, too empty!”

“I’m coming right back, baby, shh,” Jim says. He lines up with the tiny pink pucker, slides the tip of his cockhead along Ozzie’s taint, and lets Oswald’s clenching pull the head inside.

They both freeze; Oswald keens beneath him and Jim crushes their bodies together, kissing the smaller man, ensuring he doesn’t slide any deeper into Oswald’s perfect heat. “Oh shit,” Jim grumbles. “Shit, baby, Oswald, shit, you feel so fuckin’ good.”

“It’s so much,” Oswald chokes. “Oh, it’s… more? Can you give me a little more, just a little, please?”

“Of course,” Jim says. He lets another half inch slip inside Ozzie’s body. “Is that okay?”

“More!”

It takes them time, but eventually Jim’s balls brush alongside Oswald’s. “I’m going to stay here for a minute,” Jim says. He tries to picture Carmine naked to distract his brain from sexy things, or he’s going to come and ruin Oswald’s experience. “Tell me when it feels better.”

“Full,” Oswald agrees. “Wait.”

Oswald pre-verbal is delightful. Oswald with his green eyes turned emerald, hair plastered to his head, pink-cheeked and sweaty is beyond any delight Jim can conceive. “I’m waiting.”

“Glad.”

He kisses Oswald, chases his own taste in Oswald’s mouth. The necking helps, soothes Ozzie down so that when he tugs at Jim’s hair and says, “Move,” Jim can give a light rock of hips and it feels good.

“Again.”

Even though Jim’s on top, it’s Oswald setting the pace for his own pleasure. As soon as he figures it out, he directs Jim (up, down, harder, wait) at his leisure. 

It’s only when Oswald loses speech entirely that Jim grins. “That’s your prostate,” he says, grinning harder at Oswald’s stunned expression. “I’ve been trying to avoid it for a while so you could get used to this.”

“Why do you hate me?” Oswald says. “Do that again!”

Everything devolves after that. Oswald moves his hips to meet Jim’s thrusts, which progressively get harder and more forceful, until they’re working together to both get off.

There’s no way Jim’s going over before Ozzie does. It’s a teeth-tangling fight to the end, but Jim wins (loses?) as Oswald comes around his cock, triggering his own release.

“You’re heavy,” Oswald says, from beneath where Jim has squashed him into the furniture.

“Sorry,” Jim pants. “Give me a second and I’ll find where my legs went.”

This earns him giggling. Giggling Oswald is his favorite, and he says so.

“Well, that was really amazing.”

“It gets better after practice.”

Oswald beams and yeah, Jim’s hooked on this ridiculous kid he loves. He can’t find it within himself to mind.


End file.
